The Traveler
by IronAmerica
Summary: Palm City isn't the place to be if you're the most notorious smuggler in the United States or a vigilante hunted by an evil corporation.  Time traveling is par for the course at this point.
1. Window Dressing

Well, here's a story to balance out The Eyes Have It. Something lighter and fluffier.

Beta'ed by WtchCool.

- o – o -

The Traveler

Chapter One: Window Dressing

Trip Faraday hated Monday evenings. It was like the whole day had it in for him, and the evening was the worst part. That his patrols always picked up on Monday evenings seemed to cement the fact. Still, he was the Cape, and it was his duty to protect Palm City—no matter how much he hated Mondays.

The twenty-year-old vigilante picked up the pot of lukewarm coffee and began drinking from it as his partner, Orwell, began rattling off his patrol schedule. Jamie Fleming (and, oh boy, hadn't _that_ been a surprise?) was a surprising stickler for keeping his patrols as random as possible. Given that Fleming and Snake Eyes seemed to take a perverse delight in trying to kill him, it was a good idea.

"And for God's sake Trip, would it kill you to use a mug?" Orwell finished in exasperation. Trip looked over at her, a smirk on his lips.

"Probably," he said, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. "What's this about ARK doing something near the docks?" the vigilante added, leaning over the blogger's shoulder to stare at the computer screen. "I thought Snake Eyes had made her opinion abundantly clear…"

"Like you making your opinion of your stepfather clear," Orwell retorted under her breath. Trip glowered at her, but remained silent. Arguing with Orwell was like arguing with a brick wall, but not as much fun.

"Yeah, whatever," Trip grumbled. "Okay, I gotta go on patrol. I'll check the ARK thing out first, yeah?"

"Don't forget your headset!" Orwell yelled after him. Trip held up the device in question as he exited the lair, snickering under his breath as he pulled his hood up. Yeah, arguing with a brick wall was a lot more fun.

- o – o -

Mondays had to be the best days for business in the world, unless one counted Friday evenings spent in the back rooms of pubs. This was, of course, the biggest difference between Elizabeth "Snake Eyes" Raoul and the Cape. The smuggler enjoyed working; the Cape did not. At least not on Monday evenings, at any rate.

The smuggler was prowling around the outer edge of her domain, fulfilling her obligations to the longshoremen and the IRS. Elizabeth wasn't one to bother with the government—or even pay attention to their laws most days—but even _she_ wasn't crazy enough to screw around with the bloody Internal Revenue Service. There were some things that just weren't worth it, honestly.

She sighed, stretching as she completed her check of another switchbox. The security systems were the best money could buy, and yet someone still had to physically check on them. It was necessary, at any rate. Did give her an excuse to be alone on Mondays…

"Hello Cape," Elizabeth said, hearing a telltale rustle of fabric. The vigilante sighed, not even trying to deny the fact that he was there by remaining silent. "Nice evening, ay?"

"ARK is in your district. Why?"

The smuggler rolled her eyes at the question. Apart from one infamous and all too memorable moment, the Cape was always annoyingly blunt and to the point. He wasn't as much fun as his predecessor had been, which was a shame. Not as much witty banter from this pup.

"Do I look like I 'ave a bloody clue?" she asked, turning around. She crossed her arms, wishing she were wearing one of her suits and not the ridiculous orange vest that was almost mandatory as part of her legitimate job's uniform. It was also effing impossible to hide a gun in the damn thing, come to think of it.

"You look a bit scaly," the Cape replied, grinning. Elizabeth glowered at him. "C'mon Snake Eyes. When was the last time you made a joke about your skin?" The vigilante ducked the expected blow, but knew he'd won the argument anyways. Snake Eyes wasn't one to let ARK play in her sandbox without exacting a hefty toll; and she _really_ wasn't someone who was going to let a vigilante like the Cape show her up.

"Bugger off Cape," Elizabeth said, locking the switchbox again. She picked up the flashlight and looked at the vigilante, an evil look in her eye. "I have to go take a look at this ARK thing again anyways."

Trip watched the smuggler sprint off into the dark, smirking. So she wasn't Scales, but that didn't mean it was harder to push her and ARK into conflicts. Dad had played that game too many times… Alright, he probably needed to quit doing that. It was so much fun though!

With a sigh, Trip pulled himself up onto the row of storage containers that formed a makeshift wall around the perimeter of the docks and sprinted off across them. And damn if his conscience didn't get on his case every once in a while. He had slept with her _once_, for crying out loud!

This was just going to end badly, he could tell.

- o – o -

Trip often wondered if the inner eye he'd always heard about was possible. Some days, it felt like he had one. Alright, he hadn't read Harry Potter in years—that had died with his father—but there was some merit in the supernatural. (For God's sake, he ran around in tights and had slept with a woman who looked like the next candidate for Ms. Hellgate. Stood to reason the supernatural could exist, too.)

Case in point: He was now face-to-face with some of the worst thugs ARK employed to do their dirty work. He'd followed Snake Eyes to the portion of the docks ARK was encroaching on. The situation had gone downhill from there and it didn't look like it was going to get any better.

Whatever ARK was guarding it was pretty damn important. (Although that did beg the question as to _why_ they had it on the docks.)

"Oh shut up," the vigilante added out loud, kicking one of the thugs in the head. The man went down with a grunt, unconscious. Snake Eyes seemed to be holding her own against the two men who were trying to kill her, so Trip decided to check out the container the men had been guarding.

"Little 'elp would be appreciated!" Snake Eyes bellowed. A few seconds later, the smuggler was flying through the air to slam into the side of the container in front of Trip. The woman glowered at him as she stood up, brushed herself off, and charged right back into the fray.

"Nice dent," Trip muttered, checking out the damage inflicted on the poor innocent shipping container. That was going to be hard to cover up…

The vigilante sighed as the two men slammed into what had been a perfect imprint of Raoul's body. So much for that. And he'd _so_ been looking forward to getting a photo of it. (Damn it, he really needed a normal hobby.)

"Next time, 'elp a girl out," Snake Eyes snarled as she stalked past, adjusting the lurid orange vest she was wearing over her work clothes. She yanked the doors of the container open with a little more force than necessary. Trip winced at the shriek of metal, before following the smuggler inside.

"It's not my fault you've got anger management issues," Trip muttered under his breath, low enough that his voice wouldn't carry to the smuggler in question. Aloud, he said "You looked like you were handling it pretty well to me."

The rude gesture wasn't unexpected, honestly. Trip was about to start pacing when the silence stretched to the five minute mark.

"Oh bugger."

That was never a good sign, especially from Raoul.

"Is that supposed to happen?" Elizabeth asked, seconds before whatever it was that she was examining exploded. Trip's last thought as he lost consciousness was that he was going to have to hurt Raoul for this. If he survived…

- o – o -

Trip woke up screaming, thrashing around as he tried to put out the flames on his chest. As the panic washed away, his breathing slowed down considerably. The vigilante frowned as he became more aware of his surroundings. He hadn't slept in a bedroom like this since he was sixteen—nineteen, if the incident with Elizabeth Raoul counted.

If Ruvi was playing a joke on him, the man was going to die. He owed the man anyways.

The vigilante came to full alertness as he heard thumping coming towards the door. Alright, something else was niggling at his mind, but this was more important. _Shit, where was his mask?_ Trip searched frantically for any of his gear as the door opened.

"Trip? Honey, are you alright?"

Trip turned towards the voice he hadn't heard in almost a year, eyes wide. "_Mom?_" He passed out.

- o – o -

So, there you have it. What do you think? Good? Bad? Think I'm being too mean to Trip? Drop a line and let me know!


	2. Wishing, Watching, Waiting

Hey, another update! Trip plots out some plans, and makes underhanded deals.

Beta'ed by the wonderful WtchCool.

- o – o -

Chapter two: Wishing, Watching, Waiting

Trip sat at the breakfast table early the next morning, browsing through the paper as he nursed a mug of coffee. After passing out last night in front of the specter of his mother, the night had been wonderfully stress-free. Hell, even Orwell hadn't called to bother him about missing his patrol. He had discovered the reason why when he woke up the next morning and stumbled blearily out of the room he was sleeping in.

The former vigilante had spent time in some weird places, but nothing compared to this. Still in the first stages of waking up, he'd assumed that some psycho had figured out his identity and recreated the apartment he'd lived in for three years. It had only been when he'd attempted to get Tylenol out of the cabinet behind the mirror over the sink that he'd discovered something else.

He'd shrunk. And not just shrunk, but apparently he was nine again. Trip had splashed copious amounts of cold water on his face in an attempt to wake himself up from the nightmare. It hadn't worked. His second attempt had been brewing a pot of coffee, which was now sitting in front of him on the table.

Trip sighed, folding the paper back to the sports section. God, the Pilots had really tanked in the past few years, hadn't they? Well…past few years, subjectively speaking. To his mind, it had been a few years. According to the paper, it was 2011. The vigilante sighed and took another gulp of his coffee, wondering if the rumors about coffee stunting one's growth were true. (If that was the case, he should definitely indulge. While he didn't mind being tall, being almost six and a half feet tall had some serious disadvantages. Gymnastics hadn't come so easily after his last growth spurt.)

"Morning Trip."

The nine-year-old looked up from his perusal of the _Morning Arrow_ (his mother's preferred paper, due to the large legal section), a quizzical look on his face. That was something else he was going to have to get used to: His mother. After she'd married Hall—that bastard—she'd…drifted. Or he had. But whatever, Trip thought with a mental shrug; their relationship had really soured. This time around, he was going to make things better.

"Morning mom," Trip replied, taking a sip of his coffee. "I made coffee." His mother stared at him, and Trip cursed inwardly. He hadn't started drinking coffee until he was sixteen, and that had only been an attempt to stave off growing any taller (an effort that had failed miserably after six feet). At ten… Hadn't he thought only dinosaurs drank it, at that age?

"Are you…drinking coffee?" Dana asked, a quizzical look on her face. When Trip nodded, the widow sighed. "It is too early for this; I'm going back to bed." With that, the red-head turned on her heel and walked back down the hallway to her bedroom.

"That went well," Trip commented to the empty room. He stuck the paper under his arm, grabbed the coffee pot with his free hand, and stalked back to his room. If he was going to make any plans, he needed information first—and that meant finding out if the Cape had been sighted yet.

As he booted up his computer, Trip half-wondered if Liz had come back. Oh god. That would be horrifying…

- o – o -

It was nearly lunchtime when Trip finally emerged from his room. The coffee pot was empty, and had been for an hour. The nine-year-old was in a bad mood, due to his search turning up nothing of interest. In a desperate bid to find his mother something other than the public defender's office, he'd even gone trawling for the firm Jack Kirchner worked at. He'd nearly put his fist through the wall when he remembered that, one) Kirchner had been a founding partner and two) the firm had yet to be built. It had not been a good morning.

Trip's bad mood evaporated as soon as he stepped into the apartment's kitchen. Okay, so he hadn't found Kirchner. So what? He still had four months before anything major came up—if he remembered that year correctly, anyways. (Four months to plan what he was going to do to his father if the man didn't reveal his secret identity to mom as soon as possible; four months to find Jack Kirchner if the first didn't work out.)

"Hey sweetie," Dana said, smiling at her son. The nine-year-old smiled back at her, although Dana wondered if there was something hidden behind that smile. He hadn't smiled much since the…accident. This new, sly, puckish smile was worrisome. She brushed the feeling aside and busied herself with making lunch.

"Hi mom," Trip replied, sitting down at the table. "So, I had this dream last night…" He trailed off as he saw his mother's back tense. "Oh. Yeah," he muttered under his breath. Ten years had worn the rough edges off his memories of his dad's first "death". "Dad was trying to tell me something," he hurried on, brushing away the lingering guilt. "And…"

The feelings of guilt evaporated as soon as his mother's arms enclosed him in a tight, bone-crushing hug. Alright, he'd figure something out—what to tell his mother, what to do… Anything as long as he never had to give this up again.

After a few minutes, Trip felt his mother let go. The clanking of dishes told him that she'd gone back to making lunch; the light sniffing told him that she was holding back tears, too. This time around—if this didn't turn out to be some weird dream that Ruvi'd stuck him in—she was going to be a lot happier.

If he had anything to say about it, his dad wouldn't end up getting shot by ARK troops either.

- o – o -

Trip was playing pong for the umpteenth round on his computer when a thought hit him. Hadn't Raoul also been caught in that blast? (Alright, she'd started it. Maybe. His recollection of events was a little fuzzy at the moment—nothing a decent bit of meditation on the roof wouldn't cure.) He sighed and resisted the urge to beat his forehead against the desk.

Even if she hadn't come back, he was going to have to help Raoul out, too. She'd gone…kooky after her father's murder. If she hadn't come back, well… Raoul was still a little kid at this point. He was obligated to help her, even if he didn't like the fact that he'd have to help Scales too.

_Wouldn't dad be so pleased?_ Trip thought sardonically as he opened up a new search page, pong forgotten for the moment.

This was just going to end badly. He opened up his e-mail anyways and sent a message.

- o – o -

By nature, Elizabeth Raoul was not a very trusting person. She could count on one hand the number of people she trusted implicitly, and two of them were dead. One of them had only gotten a position of trust in her life due to the amount of blackmail they had on each other—including the unfortunate incident from a few years ago (a few years, relatively speaking).

So, when she saw an e-mail from the effing Cape appear in her inbox, she was naturally intrigued. Alright, learning his secret identity had been accidental. How was she supposed to know his mask would slip off like that? (It made trying to kill him so much harder, honestly.) Last night's escapade had led to some interesting fever dreams, and now it appeared one of them was permanent.

If she was going to be stuck here, why not imagine the Cape as well? At least he was funny—although she'd never admit it out loud.

_Coffee is still the nectar of the gods_. Of course he'd send a cryptic message, Liz thought with a grimace. He had that sense of humor, the evil little todger. She smirked as she composed a reply, and sat back to wait for a reply.

There were too many odd things to consider these days. She knew three things for certain, though: One) ARK had created something that exploded and produced extremely realistic hallucinations. Two) She now appeared to be almost ten years in the past, in her childhood bedroom. Three) She really had to burn all of the poofy pink princess dresses she'd worn as a child. Why had she ever worn anything that…saccharine?

The reply popped up almost immediately.

_Bite me. _You_ can get a cup._

She was half-surprised that the tit hadn't included a raspberry in the message, but supposed there was a limit even to _his_ childishness. Well, if she was stuck in a fever dream, she might as well have fun. And Trip was definitely a riot to be around.

Now she just needed to figure out how to blackmail her father. Getting to know her future contacts at this age was a better prospect than trying to retrieve all of the blackmail for a second time. (Besides, if this was really time-travel, there was no guarantee that those situations would happen again.)

She wondered if Trip would help her with the blackmail.

- o – o -

By evening, Trip and Liz had hammered out the barest bones of a plan. Raoul had done so reluctantly, owing to her primary nature as a criminal. Helping the hero wasn't exactly her forte. Helping a criminal wasn't Trip's forte either, but they had to make due.

Their first step was meeting up somehow. Trip's mother was far more easy-going than the employees who kept an eye on Elizabeth Raoul, which had Trip snickering for several minutes. By the time he turned his computer off for the night, the former vigilante was feeling carefully optimistic about the whole thing.

Now he just needed to make sure his mother never got within five hundred feet of Travis bloody Hall…

- o – o -

So, what did you think? Good? Bad? Wondering why Trip hates Travis so much? Drop a line and let me know!


	3. Fallen Leaves

It's a new chapter!

Beta'ed by the wonderful WtchCool.

- o – o -

Chapter three: Fallen Leaves

Encountering his father again had been more emotional trauma than Trip had wanted. He'd almost forgotten about the first time he'd met the Cape, and was left wondering how he'd failed to recognize his own father—even with the three month gap, it shouldn't have been too hard. It was probably the tights, the nine-year-old decided as he brewed another pot of coffee.

Trip sighed as he stared at the coffee, willing it to brew faster. His mother, at least, had taken some of his explanations on why he now had insomnia lightly. (Alright, so he was blaming everything on nightmares. That was evil, but necessary. Ruvi would be proud.) She hadn't taken to the coffee thing so well, but whatever. He really needed the caffeine. Especially today.

If there was one thing he hadn't missed after getting emancipated, it was public schooling—or even school in general. At least his mother was only trying to get him enrolled, rather than making him suffer through the boredom of school again for an entire day. (Time travel was worse than jetlag. Who knew?)

The nine-year-old rolled his shoulders back and stretched, wincing as his spine popped. He really needed to figure out what to do about his mattress. It wasn't very good, and his spine hurt. At least the coffee was done.

One thing that he wasn't going to miss was being so damn tall. Being short meant his balancing act to reach the coffee mugs was a lot easier. (He carefully ignored the fact that he could have just grabbed the mugs out of the shelf when he was pushing seven feet.) The first time his mother had caught him playing tree monkey to get the coffee mugs down, she'd nearly had a heart attack.

The back flip dismount from the countertop hadn't exactly endeared the process to his mother much either. That was vaguely disappointing to his twenty-year-old self, who knew that she secretly loved watching him perform. Even if she swore it still scared the bejeezus out of her, anyways.

Trip had poured the coffee and was reading the early edition of the _Herald_ when his mother came into the kitchen. She was dressed to kill, as usual. Trip didn't know where she'd dug all the business suits up from, but he didn't mind in the least. He much preferred her dressing like a lawyer than looking like a mother of four or a soccer mom.

"Morning mom," Trip said, not looking up from his perusal of the _Herald_'s sports section. The Pilots had managed to stomp the Bengals into the dirt over the weekend. The scores made Trip rather sad that he wasn't old enough to bet—the Pilots hadn't made it to the Super Bowl in his original timeline, but they'd made a decent go of it.

"Why are you drinking coffee?" Dana replied as she crossed the kitchen to the fridge. "Never mind, I don't think I want to know. Are eggs alright for breakfast?" Trip nodded and muttered something that might have been a yes. He was still lost in thought and contemplating the bottom of his nearly-empty coffee mug.

Dana shook her head with a sigh. Even if it was just in the little things, Trip was acting more like his father than he probably knew. Vince had been like this on work days, if he were working one of the decent shifts—or not being forced into pulling a double, due to understaffing. Maybe ARK would take care of that; she rather doubted it, though.

Fifteen minutes later, breakfast was on the table and Dana was going over a mental checklist of what she needed to do for the day. There was a job interview she needed to go to (it'd been scheduled a few weeks before Vince's death, but it—like everything else—had been pushed back); Trip needed to be enrolled in a new school, and they were almost out of groceries. Dana checked her cell phone and sighed. They also needed to do a lot more unpacking, especially if she wanted to keep her cell phone from dying.

- o – o -

Trip slouched into the elementary school behind his mother, wondering why he had to wait until he was sixteen to sit for his GED. He'd hated this school, more than was strictly necessary. High school hadn't been much better, but the track coach had at least been good. All those years of running like hell from his classmates in the lower grades had paid off—in more ways than one, actually.

Chandler Elementary was a gloomy, depressing building. It housed kids up to the sixth grade, at which point they were promptly shunted to one of the high schools in the area. There was no way to escape how depressing this building had been—even the little kids' classes, with all the bright colors and construction paper projects, hadn't been able to escape that. (Trip suspected it had something to do with being connected to the Chandler family, but couldn't prove anything.)

The nine-year-old sat on the hard wooden bench outside the principal's office while his mother sat inside, trying to fill out admissions forms. There was quite a bit of paperwork involved, sadly. He vaguely remembered there being a few more questions last time, but this seemed to be shorter. (That, or his level of patience had vastly improved due to vigilante work.) Trip took the time to study what was going on in the hallway he was sitting in.

The graffiti by the fire extinguisher was fresh-looking, and still sounded obscene even though he knew what the words meant now. There had been a half-hearted attempt to get rid of the vibrant pinks and blues, but it had stubbornly clung to the wall. The janitor still had his office at the end of the hallway, and his cart was still smelly and in need of a good scrub.

Trip sighed, stretching. This was going to be so incredibly boring, wasn't it? He was about to start some of his less intensive stretches when a familiar figure walked into the building. Although he hadn't seen the man in years, Kazzie still cut an impressive figure. Whoever said fat men couldn't fight had obviously never met the dockworker who served as Scales'—and, later, Snake Eyes', right-hand man. As to what he was doing here…

Oh no. She _wouldn't_. Not even Snake Eyes was _that_ crazy… Was she? Trip slouched down in his seat, hoping to draw as little attention to himself as possible. Please, let Kazzie just be here about one of his kids, instead of…

"Trip?"

Trip breathed a sigh of relief as his mother exited the office. She was smiling, and looked as though things were finally going right for once.

"Come on, sweetie," Dana said, holding out her hand. Trip took it without protest, a little of the familiar ache in his heart withering away at the contact. "Let's go get lunch somewhere. I think things are going alright…"

_For once_.

- o – o -

As soon as Trip got home, he grabbed a cup of coffee and retreated to his room. Lunch out with his mother had been fun—they'd gone to a pizza place Trip knew she'd missed going to in later years. He'd even eaten the nasty anchovies she liked, just to see her smile. (The coffee was going to go a long way to getting rid of the flavor, he knew.)

The former vigilante booted up his computer, almost regretting doing so. He'd downloaded Skype on a whim at some point in the past two days. Unfortunately, he still hadn't figured out how to block incoming calls. Scales' daughter was waiting for him, an evil glimmer in her eyes. That was _never_ a good sign.

Trip sighed. "Hello Elizabeth," he said, turning the volume down a little.

—_Don't toy wiv me t'day_— Elizabeth growled. It was apparent that she hadn't been having a very good day, as her accent was getting rather thick. Syllables were dropping like flies. —_Molinari is one right soddin' bastard, an' damned ifn I'll pu' up wiv 'im f'r ano'er five years._—

It seemed her ire was directed at Tommy "Pokerface" Molinari, thank whatever deity was listening. At least she didn't have a gun this time. (She'd given Molinari quite a bit to think about in the early days of her rule of Palm City's docks. Even Fleming had backed well away during that first year.)

"Should I ask?"

The reply was a string of swear words that would have made Trip blush at a younger (mental) age.

"I guess not," Trip sighed, propping his chin up on his hand. "Are you enrolling in Chandler Elementary?" he asked.

—_Yes. Why do you ask?_— Elizabeth's smile was angelic, although there was a gleam in her eye that rather gave it away.

"Curiosity," Trip muttered. This was going to be one fun day. He almost missed Liz's next statement, which had him spluttering and spitting coffee all over his desk when it registered.

"What do you mean, the Cape's been sighted?"

It was probably not the best time for his mother to come into his room.

- o – o -

What do you think? Good? Bad? Wondering about two different "first" appearances of the Cape? Drop a line and let me know!


	4. Let's Start a Riot

Well, it's a new chapter. Trip gets grounded, and Liz does something stupid (off-screen.)

Un-beta'ed, so quibble away.

- o – o -

Chapter four: Let's Start a Riot

In all likelihood, announcing that the Cape had been sighted had not been the best decision she'd made since time traveling. Elizabeth ranked it somewhere between swearing around her da and blubbering into his coat that first night. (In all honesty, though, she didn't mind that last occurrence as much as she might have. Whatever else happened, Scales was still her father.)

Still, the decision didn't really bother her. Trip needed to know that his father was making a fool of himself. (Those tights were still ridiculous, even ten years after she'd first seen them.) It had just been bad luck that Dana Faraday, her erstwhile ally's mum, had walked in when she had.

Trip still hadn't forgiven her for terminating the connection so quickly.

Elizabeth sighed and studied herself in the mirror. Her nose still looked too large for her face, which was a pity. At least now she knew she'd grow into it—eventually. The eight-year-old sighed, burying her face in her hands. This was a rehash of a night she never wanted to remember, and yet…

She muttered a curse under her breath as Kazzie walked in. As much as she liked the man—and she still needed to thank him for convincing her dad that public school was a good thing—she really hated when he interrupted her musings. Most of the time…

"Hey kiddo," Kazzie said. He sat on the edge of her bed, smiling at her. Liz smiled back, unconsciously adjusting the new too-large watch on her wrist again. "Nervous about meeting your old man's business associates?"

Liz nodded, and then did her best not to roll her eyes as Kazzie ruffled her hair a few seconds later.

"Don't worry, Lizzie Lizard," he said, using her childhood nickname, "you'll be fine. Just don't bite anyone."

Liz made a rude gesture to Kazzie's retreating back. A few minutes later, she was out of her room, shrugging on a dark blue jacket. She never could remember what had possessed her father to host what amounted to a cock contest in his private residence (the public residence being a flat in his main warehouse), but it still annoyed her to no end.

"This is just going to end well," Liz muttered under her breath as she walked down the curving staircase to the main floor. If she was lucky, she'd make it to the kitchen before any of her father's men or associates saw her. (And, if she were doubly lucky, her da would be making something sweet and she'd get to lick the bowl out.)

- o – o -

Trip felt a cold ball of dread settle into his stomach when his mother mentioned that Marty Voyt was coming over after dinner. He'd never really liked the man much, but… Well, knowing what he did now, it was hard to keep from telling his mother that Marty Voyt was a rat fink.

All right, there was another part to that: He still remembered having to break CJ's legs a few (relative) months ago. The idiot was the spitting image of his father, and had the same mentality. It was not a good combination. He'd been doing CJ a favor by keeping him from killing Fleming, really. (Getting socked in the jaw had been…well, mostly worth it. Still hurt like a bitch though.)

The nine-year-old retreated to his bedroom, praying that some semblance of sanity could be found there. He stopped in the doorway, wondering when Snake Eyes had become the sane person. Good god was time travel annoying. Snake Eyes was sane? Really?

He fired up his computer and waited for the familiar bubble-popping sound of Skype. After a few minutes, the service was up and running. Liz wasn't there. Trip groaned and beat his forehead against the keyboard, producing an amusing set of error messages. This. Wasn't. Happening. Today.

Holding his forehead with one hand, Trip clicked on Liz's icon. There was a good chance she was just idle, and… Ah hell. She was busy getting in cahoots with the criminal factions in the city. Why hadn't she… Oh. Yeah. Son of hero does not get to learn about criminal get-togethers until after the fact.

Trip sighed and headed out of his room after he heard the front door close. Marty and Susan must have arrived… He paused in the doorway, feeling distinctly uncomfortable about the whole thing. The first time around, he'd spent the rest of the evening sobbing into his pillow and fighting off nightmares. Marty's words had cut deeper than the man probably knew; what really irked Trip was that the man was lying through his teeth… And _knew_ it.

There was one very simple reason that his father couldn't have been Chess: He had been on the other side of the planet when Chess had committed one of his murders. During the others, he'd been on family vacations or in highly visible places where too many witnesses could have seen him. Anyone who could read a calendar would have known this. A pity none of them could; maybe there was something in the city's water supply…

The nine-year-old grinned at the thought. Well, he'd have to start buying bottled water then. He shrugged. No great loss…

"There were no bank accounts!" Trip burst out, breaking out of his musings. He heard the conversation in the living room grind to a halt. The nine-year-old looked up at his mother when she came out of the living room, an odd look on her face.

"Trip?" Dana said, a question in her tone. "Is there something wrong, sweetie?" She sniffed a little, and Trip resisted the urge to run into the other room to beat Marty. (It wouldn't do any good; he was only nine, and his physical strength wasn't anything to mention. Liz, on the other hand…)

Trip sighed and mentally said a quick prayer. He was going to need all the help he could get for this little encounter. Mostly to get out of being grounded…

The nine-year-old looked at his mother and shrugged, before walking into the living room. "Hi Aunt Susan," he said politely. He scowled at Marty, who looked like he'd just seen a ghost. "Despite the fact that mom still trusts him, Marty is a lying rat fink who'd sell his own mother out for the right price."

He heard his mother gasp behind him and frowned a little. The former vigilante had the feeling he was going to get it later. "And if anyone wasn't too stupid to read a calendar and do some simple mathematics—and had a basic grasp of common sense," he added, shooting a dark look at Marty's wife as he added the last bit, "They would realize that my dad couldn't be Chess. And they'd also know that dad would have put the alleged money into accounts that my mother had access to. He's a smart guy, he'd figure out a way to explain odd funds to mom."

Trip glowered at Marty, wondering how badly this was going to damage the relationship between the Faradays and the Voyts. He decided he honestly didn't care.

"After all, how was he supposed to be in two places at once? Henry Jarrod, 2001—murdered by Chess. My dad—almost five thousand miles away, working on something completely unrelated. But you knew that, Marty. I hope getting screwed by Fleming hasn't damaged your brain too much."

That was what got him grounded for the next six months. As Trip strolled back to his room, he couldn't help but feel the entire evening had just become worth it. And then he saw the message from Liz.

_If I _never_ hear anything about Molinari's sexual proclivities ever again_, Trip thought, _it will be too soon_.

- o – o -

So, what did you think? Good? Bad? Mind going to horrible places regarding Molinari? Drop a line and let me know!


	5. Familiar Faces

Hey, it's a new chapter! Trip's first day of school...again.

- o – o -

Chapter five: Familiar Faces

His mother wasn't speaking to him.

That wasn't exactly surprising, considering what he'd done. Trip still couldn't believe he'd deviated so thoroughly from the plan he and Liz had hammered out almost a week ago. Still, she'd laughed for a good ten minutes after hearing his side of the story. His father, in his guise as the Cape, hadn't been so amused. (Nevertheless, and Trip wasn't sure on this, he would have sworn he'd seen the Cape's lips twitch up in a smile as he heard the story.)

The nine-year-old sighed and double-checked to make sure he'd packed everything into his backpack, including an extra pair of socks. He was lucky that his mother never bothered to check his backpack, or he'd never had made it out of the apartment. Not without a good talking-to, anyways. (Alright, so he was a little paranoid. Did that mean he had to leave behind the sap his dad had used on patrol, way back when?)

His mother still wasn't speaking to him. Trip sighed and poured himself a cup of coffee. Not so much as a twitch from her. The nine-year-old felt a little guilty about the events of the night before, if only because he'd hurt her.

"Morning mom," Trip said, smiling cheerfully. She looked at him once, before returning her attention to the _Herald_. "So, do you know who my teacher is yet?" he asked, trying to break the awkward silence. He already knew it was Mrs. Debolt, but the silence was killing him.

"Her name is Mrs. Debolt," Dana replied, taking a bite of her toast. She checked her watch and swore under her breath. "And you are going to be late if we don't leave now!" Trip grabbed his lunch and backpack and hurried after his mother, making sure to slam the apartment door so it locked.

Fifteen minutes later, his mother was waving goodbye and heading for a job interview. If Trip had been any other child, he would have been unhappy and begun bawling over the perceived abandonment. As it was, he wasn't a normal child. His only fear was that she'd fall in love with Hall all over again.

With that cheerful thought, he headed for Debolt's room, barely listening to the office secretary who was trying to make small-talk with him.

The introduction was just as awkward as it had been. When Trip sat down, though, he opened the desk and looked inside. As his classmates started laughing, Trip just looked at them, an evil smirk in place. (Ruvi had been good for something. Who knew?) They shut up immediately.

This day was going to be pretty good, Trip decided as he stood for the pledge of allegiance. And maybe, just maybe, he could avoid the temptation to beat Ryan Harrison's face into the cement again…

- o – o -

Math was just as dull as Trip remembered it being. He sighed and resisted the urge to turn his sheet of problems into an airplane. The world outside looked so tempting…and he was stuck _in_side. It had to be criminal to put kids inside on a day like this. He sighed and filled out a few more problems, not really looking at the answers he was writing down. He could get his GED in a heartbeat if he wanted to… Well, aside from the age thing, but that wasn't the point.

The former vigilante groaned and rested his forehead on the desk. It was going to be forever to recess, and he really wanted to see what the limits of his nine-year-old body were. He'd managed a few backbends without too much trouble, but it was nothing spectacular.

That plan was put on the backburner as soon as the door to the classroom opened. Trip, like the twenty-five other students, looked up expectantly. All of them were grateful for the distraction from a boring round of math classes. The principal was standing in the door, and was speaking quietly with Mrs. Debolt, who looked annoyed.

Trip saw who was standing behind him and didn't know if he should feel elated…or terrified.

Somehow, Elizabeth Raoul had made it into the public school system. The former vigilante sighed as she made her way through the rows of desks to sit next to him. If not for the massive black hoodie she was wearing, people would have been staring openly at her. As it was, Trip had to wonder what she was doing there at all. How had she convinced her father to let her leave that house?

"Class, we have another new student," Mrs. Debolt announced, coming to stand next to Elizabeth. "This is Elizabeth. It's her first time in a public school, so I'd like you to be nice to her." She smiled at Liz, and Trip was fairly sure she'd smiled back. Debolt knelt down so she was eye-level with the smuggler's daughter.

"Sweetie, could you take your jacket off? Or at least pull your hood down?" Mrs. Debolt asked kindly. Trip buried his face in his hands as Liz complied. The stunned gasps told him everything he needed to know; a quick peek told him that one of the other girls had fainted. Liz had a look of smug satisfaction on her face as she pulled her hood back up to hide her face.

This could not end well.

- o – o -

An hour later, Trip's fear was proven correct. It _hadn't_ ended well. He looked over at Liz, who was disturbingly calm about everything. She was buffing her nails on her jacket; only the fact that she was kicking her feet against the linoleum betrayed the fact that she was just as nervous as he was.

Almost an hour ago, they'd been on the playground, doing the usual stupid kid things. (Trip was surprised to learn that Liz actually knew how to act like a kid; he'd always been under the impression that she'd sprouted into a fully-matured smuggler shortly after birth and had never been a child.) Somehow, they'd gotten into an argument which had ended with Liz holding him in a headlock as she made her point. Given that he'd tried to do the same thing to her, it wasn't much of an issue for him. The teachers… Not so much.

Now, he and Liz were sitting in front of the principal's office, waiting for their respective parents to come get them. He was going to get grounded even worse than he had last night, Trip was sure. He resumed his staring at Liz, trying not to focus on the fact that he'd completely killed his relationship with his mother.

"Trip, I ain't gonna get up an' dance," Liz said absently, studying her nails. Without her hood up to obscure her face, Trip could see every detail on her skin. He'd been amusing himself for the past ten minutes by trying to count the scales on her cheek. Obviously, she didn't find it as entertaining as he had.

"What a pity," Trip replied with a grin. "You're a lovely dancer." Liz made a rude gesture at him and they lapsed into silence again. After a few minutes, Trip cleared his throat nervously. "How bad are our parents going to kill us?"

"Your mum'll slaughter you. Dad will give me a gun," Liz said with absolute certainty. "After grounding me for a few days," she added, almost as an afterthought. Trip shook his head, sighing; there was no way to respond to that. The sad fact of the matter was that she was probably right. He'd never met Scales personally in the original timeline, but he could make some pretty good guesses as to how he'd act, just by studying Liz. Children tended to act like their parents, after all.

(That still didn't explain Orwell's odd behavior, though.)

The two children looked up as two adult-sized figures filled the doorway to the outside world. Dana Faraday was immediately recognizable, although Trip really had to wonder just what pit his mother had dug that suit out of. The other man… Trip recognized him, mostly from the times in his vigilante career where he'd received a baseball bat to head. The nine-year-old wondered why Scales was trusting _any_ of his employees with his daughter, and then decided he didn't want to know. Knowing Noodle, though, it was a good assumption that Scales knew the man would protect his little girl from everything.

Trip didn't have much time to reflect on Noodle and the situation much after that, because his mother was next to him in a heartbeat. She grabbed his ear in her usual "I'm not happy right now" vice grip. Trip sighed. He was grounded. Again.

This just wasn't his week, was it?

- o – o -

Well, what did you think? Good? Bad? Seriously wondering why Liz and Trip are friends? Drop a line and let me know!


	6. Headless Waltz

Hey, it's a new chapter! Trip and Liz deal with suspension in their own ways.

Beta'ed by the wonderful WtchCool.

- o – o -

Chapter Six: Headless Waltz

Trip paced around the corridor outside his mother's office, scowling at the floor tiles. Last time around, he'd gotten suspended for breaking Ryan's nose. This time, he'd gotten suspended for fighting with Liz. Honestly, they all thought he was Chess's son—_why_ were they having so many problems with him?

He grimaced at that thought and flopped down on the lone bench, draping one arm over his eyes to block out what little ambient light there was in the room. This was going to take forever… The nine-year-old looked up as he heard someone walking past, and scowled. Travis Hall was a sleaze, in the worst way.

Why hadn't he called in that favor from Liz…? Oh. Yeah. That was right—he liked the idea of the biggest criminal in the city being beholden to him. It was a moot point now, but judging by the stories Liz told, she could get her wishes carried out just by giving her father one pitiful look.

It tickled Trip to think that his ally was such a daddy's girl at heart. Honestly, was there _nothing_ she'd do to keep her father around? (Alright, he couldn't blame her there. That was their stated goal: Keep their respective fathers alive at any cost.)

_And_, Trip thought with a grimace as he heard the sleaze clear his throat_, keep Travis Hall the hell away from my mother_. He looked up, a sleepily inquisitive look on his face.

"Yes?" he asked politely, with an air of boredom in his tone. Ruvi really deserved a thank-you for those unintended acting lessons…

"I'm Travis, your mom's boss," Travis said, holding his hand out.

"I'm Vincent, son of a psychopath," Trip replied, using his real name in lieu of his nickname. Take that, _Trevor_. Trip smirked mentally as he saw his one-time stepfather blanch a little. "Can I help you?" he asked, looking up at Travis. An upside-down view did not improve the man's looks.

"I just thought I'd introduce myself," Travis said, sitting down next to Trip. "Would you like me to buy you a pop?" Trip shut his eyes and counted to ten. _Why, in the name of all things holy, did Travis have to be a nice guy in this timeline?_

"Not thirsty," Trip muttered, placing his hands over his eyes as he continued his counting. "I brought my lunch today," he added. When the nine-year-old heard the man walking away, he sighed in relief.

It had been so much easier to hate him when Travis had been married to his mother and attempting to send him to a boarding school from hell.

Why did time travel have to change that? And where the hell was Jack Kirchner hiding?

- o – o -

Elizabeth Raoul was not a morning person, in any sense of the word. In her nineteen years, she had never mastered the art of being completely awake before eleven a.m., and even coffee hadn't helped. Being younger hadn't exactly helped that little morning issue either.

Thus, it was no surprise to find the eight-year-old slumped over the kitchen table, stirring her spoon around a bowl of cold cereal. A mug of tea rested by her elbow, giving off the last few feeble curls of steam as it cooled down. She muttered something under her breath as her father—a dreaded _morning person_—strode in, fixing his suit jacket. He had already eaten and chugged a gallon of hot tea, taken with three sugars and no milk.

"Mornin' nipper," Scales said amiably, ruffling his daughter's hair. Liz grunted something in reply and spooned soggy cereal into her mouth. "Your mother was like that," the smuggler commented as he pulled his lunch out of the massive black fridge.

Liz registered the comment only after her father had left the house. It struck her as odd, because he _never_ mentioned her mother. Hell, she'd only learned her mother's name when she was thirteen, after digging through all of her father's personal effects. And now that she'd switched the timeline up, she got off-handed comments about her mother's temperament?

It was too damn early to deal with this. Liz put her bowl of cereal in the sink, topped her mug off with the last of the tea, and plodded back to the second floor to drink it in peace. And maybe she'd go right back to sleep. _After_ muddling through the comment about her mother.

She set the mug down on the bedside table and curled up on her bed. There was a chip in the rim of the blue and white checked ceramic mug, and she studied it intently. A few minutes later, her eyelids began to droop. As the former smuggler drifted off to sleep, she made a mental note to contact Trip in regards to their parents.

- o – o -

Trip sat on one of the pillars in the atrium of the Public Defender's office, reading a comic book. He'd have brought a copy of Herodotus, but didn't think his mother would understand why he was reading it. (It would have been too hard to brush it off as getting closer to his father; the elder Faraday had used it to prop up a coffee table more than once, to Dana's consternation.)

Somehow, though, the adventures of the Cape never got boring. Even when he was twenty and the city's acting superhero, he'd still read them as part of his nightly ritual. (He'd been meaning to see the movie based on the comics—mostly on him and his father, though—but then he'd time traveled. Maybe he'd get to see it this time around…) Trip didn't know where his issue with the Arsonist was, but didn't really care to look for it. Still too many bad memories attached to it, honestly.

He sighed and flipped to the next page. The question of what, _exactly_, the writers had been smoking still niggled in the back of his mind. This particular villain—a beetle-themed guy—had to have been made on drugs.

Trip gave a mental shrug and smiled. In the original timeline, he had never gone to the comic book store with his mother. This time, he had. And, oddly, she'd bought a comic book for herself. Alright, maybe it _wasn't_ so odd—it was based on some legal drama she liked. Why she didn't get enough of that at work, Trip didn't know.

"Trip!"

The nine-year-old looked up from his comic book to see his mother. "Hey mom!" He slid off the pillar and walked over to her, shouldering his backpack. "Want me to carry that?" Trip asked, pointing at the box she was carrying. If he had his way, Travis would have _no_ opportunity to open a relationship with his mother.

"Okay sweetie," Dana said. Trip took the box of files from her and followed her down to the parking garage. As his mother unlocked the car, Trip looked around, feeling a little uneasy. And then he saw it: His father, perched in the emergency stairwell. Vince was wearing his costume, and Trip realized _why_ his father had asked him about the fighting in the same timeline.

Vince had never really stopped being his dad, had he?

Trip grinned and waved after he put the box of files in the trunk. It might have been his imagination, but he swore he'd seen his father smile and wave back before vanishing in a puff of grey-blue smoke.

This was a pretty good day, all things considered.

- o – o -

_This was a horrible day_, Liz thought as she paced around the private sitting room her father had taken great pains to keep out of his business. The room reflected that with its warmer colors and the comfortable armchairs and a battered sofa against one wall. The room he used to entertain his fellow mob bosses was uncomfortable and cold as hell. Despite this, Liz had never bothered switching anything up.

Her analysis of the day had begun shortly after waking up from her post-breakfast nap, sometime around lunch. Feeling much more human now that it was no longer morning, the former smuggler turned child had stumbled downstairs, pulling a jumper on over her t-shirt and trousers. Pink slippers kept her feet from freezing; if any of the men who worked for her father noticed them, they said nothing.

Liz had to commend them for that. She still had to wonder if any of them had had to disguise laughter as a coughing fit at points. Her father tended to wear bunny slippers when he was hung-over (very rarely), or extremely tired and just didn't care about his appearance (a lot more often, sadly). The girl's lips twitched in a smile as she filled a pot with water and set it on the stove.

"Are you allowed to be doin' that?"

Elizabeth looked up, eyes widening in surprise. She hadn't seen Noodle in months, and suspected that Molinari or that rat bastard Fleming had done something to him. She looked away and took a few deep breaths, willing the tears to recede some. Noodle cleared his throat again, and Liz looked back.

"Me dad don' mind it," she replied, slipping into her usual cant easily. "I think 'e would mind some stranger nosin' around me, t'ough," she added. Noodle grinned, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hideous red jacket.

"Well, that's kinda funny," Noodle said easily. "Seeing as how he sent me an' all." He grinned at her, and Liz felt her heart lighten a little. If things worked out like she hoped they would, he'd be kicking long after he should have died. _Especially_ if she had anything to say about it.

"Fine," she grunted, shelving her emotions for later examination. "I only wan'ed some tea." Noodle smiled at her and turned the burner on for her, before slouching onto one of the stools by the kitchen island.

"I'm Charles," Noodle added. "Everyone calls me Noodle, though."

Liz hid a grin behind her curtain of long, dark hair. It was evident that poor Charles hadn't figured out that "noodle" meant idiot. Alternatively, he knew and didn't care. One didn't argue with the boss—in this case, Scales—after all.

"Liz," she murmured in reply, holding her hand out. Noodle smirked at her and kissed the back of her hand instead of shaking it like a normal person. There was a reason she'd liked him: He was funny, and he didn't let her go on a rampage without a good reason. (Trip had called him her voice of reason and his father had called him her conscience on more than one occasion. Somehow, it was appropriate, even given what she and Noodle did for a living.)

"Pleasure to meet you, Miss Liz," Noodle said, a joking grin teasing around his lips. Liz beat back the emotions clamoring for attention by reminding herself that she was eight, and hitting on the help would be seen as more than a little disturbing. Also, her father would probably kill Noodle, and that couldn't happen. It would have been bad.

Liz sighed and fixed herself a mug of tea. Noodle helped himself to a pack of instant coffee and a mug of hot water. As she drank her tea—milk, one sugar—she realized that she hadn't asked him why he'd been stuck with babysitting duty. For that matter, she realized she didn't care.

Good god. She needed to talk to Trip, and _fast_. She also needed to figure out the whole hormone thing before it killed her…or Noodle. Argh!

The eight-year-old put her mug in the sink with more force than necessary and stalked out of the kitchen, glowering at anyone who got in her way. It wasn't until she had locked herself in her room (chair from the vanity under the doorknob) that she remembered why people had been getting out of her way so quickly: She'd acted almost exactly like her father.

She laughed as she composed an e-mail to Trip.

- o – o -

Trip slouched into his room, wondering why his father was such a blockhead. For good measure, he slammed his window shut and bolted it. He'd told the moron that he knew his father was alive, and… The nine-year-old resisted the urge to beat his forehead against the desk until he managed to knock himself out.

It would have been counterproductive, was all… And this was insane. Finding Jack Kirchner had just become Priority Number One, followed by Liz's plan of making it look like her father and his mother were interested in each other. Anything to get his father to stop being an idiot.

Speaking of Liz… He opened the e-mail and read it, eyes growing wider with each sentence. He began beating his forehead against the desk with all the force he could muster.

Why in the name of all things holy did she think _he_ could deal with hormones any better than she could? Trip sighed and shut his computer off. His brain hurt.

Hormones? And Liz? Why did that sound like a bad combination?

- o – o -

So, what did you think? Good? Bad? Is Trip right about Liz and hormones being a bad combo? Drop a line and let me know!


	7. Danse Macabre

Hey, it's a new chapter! Trip does his best to prevent the old timeline from interfering.

Beta'ed by the lovely WtchCool.

- o – o -

Chapter Seven: Danse Macabre

Trip eyed his mother's cell phone as he ate breakfast, making damn sure it was charging. Last time around, he hadn't been able to call her to ask about Travis. Not letting him in had, unfortunately, been the first stepping stone to the marriage from hell. (Alright, that was just his opinion, but still. Travis was _not_ getting close to his mother this time.)

He was lucky there was no school today. As in the original timeline, someone had called in a bomb threat on sixteen different schools. If not for the fact that hundreds of innocents would have been in danger, Trip would have guessed Anarchy had a hand in it. (He'd asked the man about it once, and gotten laughed at. Anarchy's style was different, and didn't involve kids dying.) As it was, he was at home all day while his mother was in court.

The ten-year-old sighed and rubbed his temples. Knowing that the bomb threat was going to be called in at four AM, he'd stayed up until midnight on Google. He'd found Jack Kirchner and sent out one cautious feeler. Liz had found out (as usual) and offered to have Jack kidnapped and sent to Trip's mother in a packing crate. Trip had ignored the offer.

Besides, there were more pressing things going on, like the Monte Carlo train. Liz was being unnecessarily cagey about that, which made the former vigilante suspicious. She was probably planning something; honestly, he couldn't blame her. If half the stories he'd heard about that were true, she was probably going to tag along so her father didn't get drunk and end up on everyone's shit list again.

Although… Trip sighed and beat his forehead on the table as he heard his mother leave the apartment. Eight hours of boredom, and Gerry wasn't moving in for another month. And there was no way in hell that he was going to Mrs. Morris' apartment for more than fifteen minutes—soap operas were not his idea of a good time. (Well, East Enders was all right, but you had to be able to find a cable provider who'd bring in the British shows for a reasonable price.)

The ten-year-old put his empty cereal bowl in the sink to be washed later and slouched out of the kitchen. If he couldn't watch moronic Londoners doing stupid things as part of a soap opera, he could always watch cartoons. Maybe Hong Kong Fooey was on…

- o – o -

Travis Hall was outside the apartment. Despite his protests that Trip's mother had sent him, Trip was stalling for time. They'd been in a stand-off for five minutes, with Trip being on the winning end of the argument. Travis had, thankfully, called Dana to confirm. Trip was holding the lawyer's cell phone hostage while he waited for the call to go through.

"And besides," he added through the half-open door, "the Cape could totally kick Batman's butt! And the Cape isn't a stupid comic book," he added petulantly. Who would have guessed his former hated stepfather was a Batman fan? In the original timeline, he'd been an uptight, unlikeable bastard who had no idea how to deal with anyone who wasn't Dana, a courtroom, or one of his biological kids.

"Oh for…" Travis trailed off, muttering under his breath. Trip rolled his eyes and wondered why his father was such a blockhead. If he could just convince the vigilante to reveal his stupid self to the world at large—preferably on live television—life would simplify immediately. Wasn't that what press conferences were for?

"Now why does this feel familiar?" Trip muttered as he listened to the dial tone for the millionth time. Was his mother calling mainland China or something? Sheesh. He looked out at Travis through the crack in the door, and couldn't resist. "Hey Trevor, are you a serial killer or something? Because mom hasn't picked up— Oh hey, mom!"

Trip would have sworn he heard Travis mumble something that sounded suspiciously like actual swearing at the change of pace. "Yeah? Seriously? Wait… Does that mean I have to let him in? You know what dad al… Oh fine," he huffed, and said goodbye to his mother. She was caught in traffic due to the bomb threat, and had been pulled aside for a search of her car. Judging by her tone as she hung up, she was rather skeptical of the randomness of the stop.

He hung up and passed the phone back to Travis, before shutting the door. The ten-year-old unlocked the chain, and wondered if being paranoid or implying that his mother's boss was a pedophile would get him grounded again. (His mother had, after several days, decided that implying that Marty had been having sex with Fleming wasn't such a big deal. She'd un-grounded him, but he'd still had to apologize to Susan.) Oddly, that retraction of the six-month sentence had coincided with her new job and his announcement that he'd made a friend his age. Coincidence? Trip didn't think so.

The ten-year-old unbolted the door and opened it again so Travis could come in. He heard the main phone ring and sighed. Was his mother calling him back already? Sheesh. He was going to be told to apologize to Travis, wasn't he? What a pity, and… He frowned as he looked at the number. It wasn't one he recognized.

"Who is this?" he asked, listening to the other end of the line intently.

—_Remind me to strangle your carnie friends.—_

Trip raised an eyebrow. So it was Liz's cell number—or her father's, more likely—and she was in a bad mood about something. But why was she calling _him_ about it? "What happened?"

—_I'll tell you when this fiasco is over. And… Shite, I think I just saw an opportunity. I'll talk to you later. Bye! Hullo Captain Reese…_— Trip stared at the handset for a few seconds, before shrugging. Liz was weird like that. He could only hope that she wasn't… Captain Reese. Ah hell. Trip wondered what hiring Sestito to defend a nine-year-old would cost, because that sure as hell wasn't going to be a pretty confrontation…

Trip slouched over to the couch and picked up his discarded comic book as Travis shut the apartment door behind him. His mother would be home in half an hour, give or take, with a melted ice cream cake. She hadn't been so happy about getting stopped for the random search last time, but she'd done a good job of hiding it.

Half an hour later (_right on time_, Trip thought) his mother unlocked the door and let herself in. Travis, acting as a perfect gentleman, held the door for her (although it wasn't really necessary). Trip glowered at the man as he shut the door, and returned his mother's hug.

He looked at the ice cream cake and saw it was almost completely melted. "I'll go get cups," he said. His mother hugged him again and whispered an apology for being late. Trip smiled at her and headed for the kitchen. He returned a few minutes later with three cups and an ice-cream scoop. "I guess you're not a serial killer," he said as he passed Travis a cup of melted ice cream cake.

Travis wisely said nothing, and the rest of the evening continued in silence. Trip made the appropriate noises of excitement when he opened the gift his mother had given him—a remote controlled car. She'd also given him an admonishment to bring his friend over sometime to play; the admonishment had Trip laughing for a good ten minutes after he was able to excuse himself to his room.

Trip opened his e-mail to check for any status updates from Liz. There was only one, and he felt his heart plunge somewhere to the vicinity of his stomach. She'd sent him a two word message from her phone:

_Help me._

- o – o -

So, what did you think? Good? Bad? Worried about Liz? Drop a line and let me know!

Side note: This is a two-parter.


	8. Clocktower Parade

Hey, it's a new chapter! Liz upsets a few plans and is conniving.

Beta'ed by the lovely WtchCool.

- o – o -

Chapter eight: Clocktower Parade

Eight-year-old Elizabeth Raoul was in a bit of a quandary. On the one hand, she had knowledge of tonight's events, exactly as they would play out. On the other, she had foreknowledge of tonight's events and could prevent them from happening. (Simply letting fate take its course was not an option at this point, however.) She had no desire to sit up in the family sitting room all night, keeping an eye on her father to make sure he didn't die from alcohol poisoning. Her father wasn't an alcoholic by any means, but he still kept a supply of vodka on hand just in case (although it was mostly used to sterilize cuts of any serious nature).

Therein lay the problem. She loved her father, but even up to his death, he'd always been a bit of an idiot—he just didn't know how to deal with people who weren't as violent or bullheaded as he was. (Scales' mentality was along the lines of "knock 'em down until t'ey stay down".) There was no other option: She would _have_ to accompany her father to the Monte Carlo train this evening.

The only question was, how was she going to get there?

There were the usual options, of course. She could simply beg to be taken along (it helped that she'd had a love of model trains as a child) until he gave in, or simply ask to be taken along and explain that business deals were easier to come by if there was guilt involved. The former was more likely to work, sad as that seemed.

Liz sighed and flopped down on the black leather sofa, wondering why she'd begged to be allowed to go with her father to the docks. It wasn't as much fun if she wasn't allowed to play cards with her father's inner circle or look at the records. (Alright, the records weren't much fun, but they were still better than being bored out of her skull.)

She cracked one eye open, sensing that someone was standing over her. It was Noodle. He was rubbing his throat with a grimace; Liz gave a mental sigh. Her best friend's darling father must have made an appearance already. Wonderful. Wait… She could turn this to her advantage. Somehow.

"Hullo Noodle," Liz said cheerfully, sitting up and scooting to the opposite side of the sofa so her friend could sit down. "'as me old man done sommat?"

Noodle shook his head. "Uh-uh. Say, how do you feel about trains…?"

Liz had to fight to restrain her grin. This was almost too perfect to pass up.

- o – o -

She should have passed the opportunity up. She really should have. Liz wondered how long she'd be able to last before kicking one of the reporters in the shins, or something equally violent. The same went for Fleming, who was getting on her nerves like no one else. The eight-year-old had only ever heard stories of how her father had convinced Fleming to let him onto the Monte Carlo, but this…

The eight-year-old sighed in boredom and leaned against her father's side, wondering if the boredom was showing. Her father patted her on the back, not really concentrating on the act too much. He was still in deep conversation with Fleming.

A few minutes later, the billionaire industrialist seemed to have given in and stopped trying to argue with Scales. Liz held tightly to her father's hand with both of hers, trying to ignore the reporters. The few she could hear clearly thought the action was adorably sweet. If they'd known she was trying her best not to attack them, they probably wouldn't have been debating the best angle for photos.

The photo opportunity in the door of the train was too much for Liz. She buried her face in her father's side and counted to ten, trying to reign in the famous family temper. (She'd gotten another story about her mother this morning. Apparently, Lydia Jackson had once hit Scales with a rolling pin for trying to steal a snack before dinner.)

Liz looked around the train as she followed her father and Mr. Fleming through the press of people to the other end of the car. The interior of this particular car was like the Palace on Wheels in India…

Correction: It looked like the interior of the Palace if someone had removed every ounce of class from it, and then tarted it up. She'd had pictures of the Palace on Wheels plastered on her walls for years, somewhere among the pink and lace. (Her reasoning had been that a princess needed a palace, and a moving palace was much cooler than one that had to stay in one place.) The interior was done up in shades of blue and silver, and there was chrome everywhere. Only the bar was black, but that was covered in chrome fixtures, so it didn't really count.

"Mr. Mayor," Fleming said, breaking through Liz's mental critique of the train. "Judge Preston! Hello." The billionaire kissed the back of the judge's hand, drawing a delighted smile from her. Liz couldn't resist the urge to sneer at Preston from behind her father's back.

"Lovely robes, your majesty," Scales commented. Liz bit the inside of her cheek to keep from offering a retort when the judge insulted her father's looks. She'd paid the woman back in kind, several years after the fact (would? Will? Whatever). It never paid to insult a smuggler with a bad temper and an itchy trigger finger, as Preston had learned.

"And a miniature of yourself to boot," Preston added, catching sight of Liz. Liz could sense Noodle shifting uneasily behind her, and wondered if he was wishing he'd brought a bigger gun. "Hello sweetie," Preston said, leaning down so she was closer to eye-level with Liz.

Elizabeth drew back, nose wrinkling in disgust. Just how many cocktails had this woman _had_? But Fleming was interrupting her train of thought (again) by introducing Scales to Mayor Welkins.

"Mayor, this is Dominic Raoul. He works with the longshoremen, as you may know—" (Who in the city _didn't_ know?), "But he also sells cement. I'll let you tell him all about it." Liz waited for Fleming to leave before bursting in with an indignant—and not altogether rehearsed—retort.

"He does not!" she burst out. She froze almost immediately as the conversation in their little bubble of space ground to a halt, the very picture of an embarrassed child. "Me dad…he don't sell cement…"

"_Doesn't_," Scales corrected her gently. "_Doesn't_ sell cement." He ruffled her hair affectionately when she rolled her eyes. "Of course, me girl is right," the smuggler continued. "I do 'ave a shipping business, all legitimate-like. Can get y' anything y' like from…anywhere y' 'ave a mind to get it from. Cheap metals, construction materials… Whatever y' like."

Liz leaned against her father's side, mentally praying he didn't mention the tax-free angle like he had in the original timeline. As near as she could tell, that had been where the entire evening had started to go downhill. (It had also contributed to her father passing out in the living room.)

"And I suppose this is 'tax-free'?" Mayor Welkins commented dryly, taking a sip of his drink. Scales' grip on Liz's shoulder tightened a fraction. He was annoyed by it. Liz squirmed uncomfortably in her father's grasp after a few moments, and rubbed her shoulder when he finally let go.

"That would be illegal," Scales replied. "I may 'ave a reputation as a thug, bu' I still got to protect me own people, Mr. Mayor." His tone brokered no dissent. "But i' y' like, I could probably find someone wot would donate the materials as a tax break…" Liz knew by the smirk that he was suggesting Tommy Molinari. Molinari was the city's resident genius at cheating the IRS out of their pound of flesh every year.

Elizabeth refused to make any mental commentary on the insanity of an ax crazy mob lord paying taxes. Even the gangs of Palm City weren't crazy enough to take on the IRS. _Their_ racket had government backing…

"It's not proper, what you're suggesting," Welkins replied stiffly.

"Are you telling me I'm improper?" Scales snarled softly, hands clenching into fists. Liz looked up at Noodle and sighed. Noodle shrugged helplessly and remained silent. This was _not_ going to end well…

"I'm telling you, I'm needed _elsewhere_," the mayor replied.

"What is it?" Scales snarled in reply. "You don't think I c'n pay the toll? I can buy and sell you!" The smuggler didn't seem to care that his voice was loud enough to carry to both ends of the train. Liz caught sight of Portman—in his ridiculous Cape costume—writing down the conversation. He was probably collecting information for the real vigilante. And she'd liked Portman too…

"Daddy," Liz said, tugging on her father's hand, "you're shouting." She drew back at the annoyed look she received, but relaxed when he ruffled her hair again. At this rate, her hair was never going to lay flat again, but it was worth her father not losing his marbles completely.

"Of course, ducky," Scales rumbled. He shot a look at Noodle. "Keep Elizabeth out of trouble, and away from the crowds. I'm goin' t' talk wiv the mayor." With that, he stalked off in the direction of the sofas where the mayor and Preston had escaped to.

"That ain't gonna end well," Noodle commented. He pulled Liz over to one of the curtained-off areas and stretched out on one of the blue leather chairs. "Might as well get comfortable, Lizzie Lizard," he yawned. "Your dad's going to take awhile…"

Liz waited until she was sure Noodle was asleep before slipping into the next curtained-off seating compartment. She needed to make a call, and she needed to do some connecting of her own. Preferably without getting killed.

- o – o -

There were times when Liz was exceedingly pleased she'd taken acting lessons between the ages of ten and thirteen. This was one of them. While she was technically using her abilities for great evil, Liz could only think of the positive outcomes and how many grateful young women would never be harassed or assaulted.

All she had to do was scream like the room was on fire and run for her father.

As a general rule, Liz was of the opinion that women should be able to fight back and not make a big scene about their lives, or at least know that it wasn't acceptable to ruin someone's life just because they didn't like them. In this case, she was willing to throw that rule right out the window to die. Getting Mick Reese fired for something he'd never done (at least in this timeline) was so much more important than morals.

Liz clung to her father, sobbing into his side. She'd been planning on ways to murder Reese ever since he'd tried to assault her when she was sixteen. She'd never found an opportunity, and had had to settle for killing the man who'd run him over with his car one night. It hadn't been as satisfying as killing Reese single-handedly, but she'd had to make do.

Scales held onto his daughter, a look of absolute terror on his face. He picked her up and continued to rub her back, almost daring anyone to approach him while his daughter was still terrified and sobbing.

"Fleming," he growled under his breath, "Would you care to explain to me why y've go' a bloody pedophile in your employ?" His voice was dangerously calm, considering that he wanted nothing more than a chance to rip Fleming's spine out and strangle the man with it.

"I have no idea," Fleming replied evenly. His face was rather pale and tight with rage. _It was obvious_, Liz thought as she reigned in her feigned hysterics some, _that he hadn't had any idea about what a pervert his shake-down man was. Odd, that._

"I t'ink," Scales growled, shifting his grip on his daughter, "tha' the next time tha' fucke…tha' bastard e'er comes near me docks again, I'll cut his throat and send 'im back in pieces. Find someone wot ain' a perv t' do your collections."

Liz stiffened in her father's grip. That was a new angle to take. The first time around, he'd tried to out Fleming as Chess. That hadn't worked at all; she'd learned later that Vince (the original Cape) had been trying to get her father to at least get Fleming in trouble for shaking down local businesses for protections. Well, at least _someone's_ plan wasn't going bonkers…

"I'll be conducting a thorough investigation," Fleming assured the irate smuggler. An unusual look flickered across his face, gone as soon as Liz had registered that it'd been there. "In the meantime, Mr. Raoul, I think you ought to get off at the next stop." He smiled at Liz. "Too much excitement for one night." The press found that to be one of the most interesting things they'd heard all night. Liz knew her play-acting would have been a much bigger event, but Fleming owned every media outlet except for Anarchy Unlimited and Orwell.

To her great relief, her father took Fleming's advice and headed for one of the rear carriages. Too late, Liz realized they'd entered the caboose.

Shite. Watching her father getting locked in a cage had not been in her plan. Neither had being kidnapped.

She sent the only text she could think of to Trip.

_Help me_.

- o – o -

So, what did you think? Good? Bad? Think the Carnival should have thought harder about kidnapping Liz? Drop a line and let me know!


	9. Down to the River

Hey, it's an update! Liz gets rescued.

Beta'ed by the lovely WtchCool.

- o – o -

Chapter nine: Down to the River

Liz buried her face in her knees, counting to ten in as many languages as she could remember all the numbers for. So far, she'd hit eight languages. (Was it really her fault that the anger management counselor she'd been ordered to see when she was sixteen had also been a language professor before his career change?) The day before, her plan had been to keep her father from getting locked in the cage and/or making an arse of himself in front of every notable of Palm City.

Now, _she_ was locked in a cage. In the heart of Trolley Park, at the mercy of her—or rather, what would have been—her enemies. Alright, she hadn't been entirely antagonistic with the Carnival of Crime, but they didn't make it much easier for her. They still got together regularly to cause havoc for ARK, but all the gangs still standing were operating like that.

The fact that Raia—the only member of the carnival that she didn't actually mind—was nowhere in sight didn't help matters. She'd questioned Ruvi, her current guard, as to what exactly Malini had been thinking when he'd abducted her. Ruvi had, of course, ignored her.

Liz sighed and looked up, having completed her round of fifteen languages. "Mister Ruvi?" she asked, falling back into her role of "terrified little girl" with ease. "Mister Ruvi, I wanna go home."

Ruvi gave her a look that was equal parts loathing and annoyance. "Quiet," he ordered, flipping another card over. He'd been playing solitaire for the past half hour. His mood hadn't improved since Vince—the _Cape_, Liz reminded herself, as she wasn't supposed to know the vigilante's secret identity—had seen her in the tiger cage. The vigilante had stormed into Max's trailer. At least the yelling had stopped, finally.

"Mister Ruvi?"

Ruvi swore under his breath in Romanian, throwing his deck of cards down on the table in front of him. "What?" he asked, clearly exasperated. Liz couldn't blame him—she'd been asking questions nonstop for the past…eight hours, or so. She was rather close to making him crack, too. "Why did I ever leave Romania?" the hypnotist grumbled under his breath, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"Can I use the bathroom?" Liz asked. Ruvi grimaced and promptly pawned the task off on Raia, who'd been attempting to sneak by without being seen. Liz smiled at the hypnotist as she walked past, snickering into her hand as he shot her a dark glower.

The bathroom was outside the big top. Given the smell of perfume and the amount of lipstick that had been smeared on napkins that had been tossed into the trashcan, it probably also doubled as the lady's dressing room.

Five minutes later, Liz had decided her suit—the grey one that matched her father's suit from the evening before—was a lost cause. The stains on the knees were never coming out, and the smell from the tiger cage was _never_ going to leave. She was going to have to burn it, which was a pity. She'd actually liked the grey silk…

"Hi Miss Raia," Liz said cheerfully as she exited the bathroom. Raia had, amazingly enough, let her go in by herself. Unfortunately for Liz's escape plan, there had been no windows to crawl through. If she'd been stronger, she'd have tried rushing Raia, but that wasn't happening.

"C'mon sweetie," Raia said, taking Liz's hand. The usually bubbly carnie was withdrawn. If not for the fact that Liz knew why she was worried, the woman's attitude would have been more worrisome.

The scene, when they reentered the big top, resembled a riot in the opening stanzas. Vince, still in full regalia, was yelling at Ruvi. Ruvi was yelling right back, throwing in a few Romanian curses. Rollo and Max's attempts to separate them weren't working. Most of the carnies had vacated the tent, rather than try to aid either side in the argument.

"Max!" Raia yelled, running into the center of the fray. Liz was left on the raised platform around the center ring to watch the proceedings. "What is going on?" There was a reason Raia worked with the big animals, Liz decided as she watched the petite woman grab Ruvi and Vince in a headlock, before knocking the men's heads together. The former combatants stumbled away, clutching their heads with looks of pain on their faces. Yeah. Who else would be trusted to look after massive animals with raging tempers?

After a few minutes, and a few Tylenol for Ruvi and Vince, the vigilante walked over to Liz. He knelt down in front of her, a look of fatherly concern on his face.

"Elizabeth?" he asked. Liz jerked herself back to reality, away from her thoughts. She smiled at him, drawing a relieved look from him. "Hey sweetie. I'm the Cape."

Liz gave him a look that clearly asked if he was an idiot. It was _kind_ of hard to miss the fact that he was crazy enough to playact as a vigilante. The cloak kind of gave it away, really.

"Of course," Vince muttered under his breath. The thought that raced across his face was similar to _why, oh why did she have to act like her father_, according to Liz. He picked her up, and either didn't see or was ignoring the look of annoyance on Liz's face.

"I'm going to…take you to a friend's," the vigilante said. "I can't walk into the docks, not even with you in tow." Liz knew that much—no matter how much her father might be worrying, he'd still have the vigilante shot on sight.

"Wait!" Liz said. "I…I kinda…sent a message to a friend of mine. I t'ink 'e's worried about me… C'n y' drop me there instead?" she asked, playing the role of embarrassed child rather well.

"What friend is that?" Vince asked, carrying her to the entrance of the big top. There was an all-too familiar black motorcycle there. Liz remembered Trip riding around on it when he'd first donned the mantle of Cape. So, he'd inherited it from Vince.

"'Is name is Trip Faraday," Liz said, matter-of-factly. The look on Vince's face was priceless. Liz settled back in her seat on the motorcycle as Vince muttered a few choice curses under his breath.

Some things _were_ too good to pass up.

- o – o -

Trip paced around his room, worrying his lower lip between his teeth. He hadn't heard anything from Liz since her text message the night before—one that had been sent an hour before he'd gotten back to his room. Somehow, this was not a good thing. Normally, he'd have killed for a little peace and quiet in relation to her—especially when she'd been tormenting him back in their…original timeline.

Now, though, he was worried as hell. His mother thought he was still asleep, which was a good thing. Trip didn't think he'd be able to hold it together if she asked him why he looked so worried. That wouldn't have been easy to explain…

_Why yes, mom, I am worried. After all, my best friend—who just happens to be the daughter of the most notorious criminal in Palm City, by the way—has been missing for the past, oh….twelve hours. No, I don't think she's ignoring me, and why are you looking at me like that?_

Yeah. That conversation would have ended well… The ten-year-old sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on. Those seemed to happen with alarming frequency around the former smuggler. If he hadn't needed someone around to talk to—who he could be completely honest with—he'd have started ignoring Liz the second he'd come back in time. As it was…

Trip leapt up from his seat as he heard the fire escape creak, landing on his feet in a crouch. It was just past dawn, which meant that only one person could be visiting. (Given how thin his nerves had worn, was it any surprise that he was reacting the way he was?)

It shouldn't have surprised him when the Cape appeared outside his window, a wide-eyed and pale Elizabeth Raoul clinging to him. It shouldn't have, but it did.

"Hi Liz," Trip said, waving. "Hi Cape. Want some coffee?"

It was par for the course that nothing surprised him anymore.

- o – o -

Dana woke up to the smell of coffee. Given that her ten-year-old had taken to making it every morning, it didn't draw her back to memories of Vince. She just wished the smell would stop giving her heart attacks every time she imagined Trip doing a backflip off the counter. (The public defender also wanted to know just who'd taught him how to do those; Vince wasn't that flexible, and she'd never taken gymnastics.)

The public defender made her way into the kitchen and stopped. She blinked several times, and sighed, rubbing her temples. She obviously wasn't awake just yet…or it was a _lot_ earlier than she'd thought it was.

"Trip," Dana began, "is there…a vigilante sitting at the kitchen table?"

Trip looked at her and nodded. "Mom, this is the Cape."

Dana sighed. She obviously needed the coffee.

"Oh, and this is my best friend, Liz. Her dad is Scales."

And quite possibly a stiff drink to go with it

- o – o -

So, what did you think? Good? Bad? Think Dana needs a hug? Drop a line and let me know!


	10. Brighter than the Sun

Hey, it's a new chapter! Liz and Trip scheme to get Vince to stop being a moron.

Beta'ed by the lovely WtchCool.

- o – o –

Chapter ten: Brighter than the Sun

It said something about Dana Faraday's character that learning that her son's imaginary friend wasn't so imaginary, and that his best friend was a future criminal mastermind didn't even faze her. She'd merely asked the vigilante sitting at her kitchen table if he wanted more coffee, and told Trip to take…Liz to watch cartoons in the living room. The two children had wandered out without much prompting, leaving Dana with the Cape.

"Well?" the Cape said, breaking into Dana's thoughts. She looked at him sharply, wrapping a strand of hair around her finger as she thought.

"What? Am I supposed to scream at you or hit you with a frying pan, or something?" Dana replied. Judging by the look on his face, Dana had gotten the question on his mind correct. "I wouldn't do that. I'm trying not to alienate my son, you know… Shit. I have to apologize to him." She sighed, rubbing her forehead with one hand.

"Umm… That thought _had_ crossed my mind," the Cape admitted. He sighed and leaned back in his chair, coffee cup held loosely in one hand. He was about to say something else when his com link buzzed. Dana waited patiently as the vigilante listened to whoever was on the other end of the line.

The vigilante stood up, an apologetic smile on his face. "Work calls," he muttered, slipping past her. Dana heard him say his goodbyes to Trip, but she didn't really focus on them. For just a second, she'd heard Vince under the vigilante's tone… But that was stupid. And besides that, she apparently had a smuggler arriving at her apartment in a little less than an hour.

Her life couldn't be simple anymore, could it?

- o – o -

Dana sat on the easy chair rescued from a Goodwill store when she was in college, staring at the front door while she pretended to listen to the cartoons Trip and Liz were watching. It was Hong Kong Phooey or something like that; she didn't remember the name, but it was apparently popular with them. Unsurprisingly, Liz had been rooting for the villains of the show, while Trip was firmly for the hero of the show (which, for some reason, was an anthropomorphic talking dog in a world full of regular humans).

She jumped a little as someone knocked on the door. As the public defender checked her watch, she realized that it'd been an hour since Liz had contacted her father—or at least one of his representatives. It wasn't like a big bad criminal mastermind could…be… Oh.

Apparently, Dana realized, even the big bad criminals with a track record of alleged murders could be troubled to drop everything to come get their children. Although, honestly speaking, this _was _kind of pathetic to watch… Very rarely had she ever seen a grown man, who looked even half as terrifying as Scales did up close, sob as he hugged his child. Given that Scales had watched his daughter being abducted, she could probably understand.

Dana smiled as Scales finished out his obligatory parenting speech, which always seemed to be finished with "I'm so glad you're safe, and _never_ scare me like that again"…or some variation thereof.

"Would you like some coffee?" Dana offered, just to be polite, as the smuggler stopped hugging his daughter. Liz smiled at her father, indicating that she was alright. The public defender decided that the girl was going to grow up to be a devious little devil in a few years—she was obviously manipulating _something_. What that something was, Dana wasn't sure she wanted to know.

"T'anks verra much," Scales rumbled, standing up. He shot a look at his daughter, clearly ordering her to stay put. Liz smiled as her father left with the public defender.

After she was sure her father was out of earshot, Liz turned on Trip. "You said your dad was bein' an idiot, right?"

"Why do I have a bad feeling about this?" Trip asked in reply. Liz smacked him on the arm.

"Shut up, you! I'm bein' serious 'ere!" Liz grinned, shrugging the annoyance off as quickly as it had come. "I think convincing the Cape that my dad is dating—or at least interested in—your mum is a great solution to our problems. Well, some of them, anyways…" She frowned and stuck her tongue out at the kitchen. "You'd t'ink me dad 'ad more sense, honestly."

"I don't find that solution very funny, and yet…" Trip groaned into his hands. "Somehow, it's the best one I've ever heard. Dear god, am I actually agreeing with you?"

"Don't worry," Liz said sympathetically, patting him on the back. "It should pass in a day or two."

Trip could only hope that it did.

- o – o -

Scales sat at the opposite end of the worn kitchen table, studying his mug of coffee. Dana thought she'd caught him looking at her a few times, but couldn't be sure. She uncomfortably stirred another packet of sugar into her coffee, not caring that she'd already poured in five before it. At the rate this was going, she was going to need twice the amount of sugar and caffeine than she usually had.

"Y' seem a bit nervous, ducks," Scales rumbled, taking a sip of his coffee. "Don't worry… I won't eat you."

Somehow, that wasn't exactly reassuring, Dana thought as she took a sip of her own coffee. She grimaced at the sickly-sweet flavor, wondering why she always added so much sugar when she was nervous. It always turned what was left in the bottom of her mug into sweet-tasting black sludge.

"One can only hope," she replied, voice pitched a bit higher than normal. It wasn't hard to guess why she was scared: Smugglers, like Scales, did not get along with public defenders, like her. He'd had a bit of a track record with hurting public defenders who'd gotten on his nerves, and she wasn't exactly eager to be the next one.

Dana was rather unprepared for the laughter that bubbled out of Scales' mouth. He slapped his hand on the table, making her jump.

"I like you!" Scales said when he finally stopped laughing. "No one's ever responded to that without fainting first." He grinned at her, showing an awful lot of white teeth.

"Oh goody," Dana muttered into her coffee. Maybe the sugar would insulate her brain from any damage that resulted from this conversation… She caught a glimpse of two children peeking in the doorway and sighed. "Why do I get the feeling that our children are trying to set us up?"

The look on Scales' face was enough to make Dana wish she had a camera.

- o – o -

So, what did you think? Good? Bad? Think Dana should be a little more wary of her son and Liz? Drop a line and let me know!


	11. Friend in Me

So, new chapter! Gerry makes an appearance.

Beta'ed by the lovely WtchCool.

- o – o -

Chapter eleven: Friend in Me

It had taken surprisingly little effort to convince Scales that she wasn't a threat, Dana decided. Three days ago, she'd never considered the possibility that she'd ever meet the smuggler, much less have coffee with him. Of course, she also hadn't counted on her son making friends with the smuggler's daughter.

The public defender sighed and rested her forehead against the cabinet over the sink as she heard the laughter coming in from the living room. Somehow, against all odds, Trip had made friends—with a _girl_. (It was, she had to admit, a wonderful change from his previous "all girls have cooties and must be avoided" stance…) As it was, though…

Her train of thought derailed as a press conference direct from the steps of ARK Towers came on. Peter Fleming, looking smugly confident as usual, was making a major announcement. Dana glared darkly at the TV as the new chief of police was announced: Marty Voyt, that little traitor. She sometimes wondered if she should have taken the Jackals up on their offer to have Marty stalked and/or beaten up once or twice a year, just to keep him humble. This was definitely one of those times.

Dana leaned against the countertop, glaring at Marty as he made what was obviously a prepared speech. She couldn't help but feel that if Vince were still alive (or not in hiding, as she felt was the _actual_ case), it would have been him up there, gritting his teeth as he smiled and promised to protect Palm City on behalf of ARK Corporation. At this moment, she couldn't decide who she hated more: Marty Voyt, or Peter fucking Fleming.

"Mom?"

Dana looked up from her angry musings on Marty, to see Trip standing in the doorway to the kitchen. He was wearing his baseball uniform, and Liz was wearing his cap and holding the bat. "Yes Trip?" she asked, wondering what had brought on this change of heart. A week ago, he'd said he hated baseball and didn't want to play anymore. Now…

"Can I go to baseball practice?" he asked, smiling. Liz grinned up at her too, the corners of her eyes crinkling. (She really _did_ look like her father when she did that; it was…kind of spooky.) "And can Liz come too?" Trip sounded so plaintive that Dana had to smile.

"Liz, does your dad mind?" she asked, shooting a look at the future smuggler.

Liz shook her head. "S'long as I bring Noodle, I should be fine," she said. "And…as long as I tell 'im I'm getting notes for why cricket is the superior sport," the girl added with a slight grin. "It's a Brit thing, ma'am."

Dana nodded and decided not to question it. She also decided not to question just _why_ Noodle was waiting outside the apartment building on his motorcycle. It just wasn't worth the headache to question a little girl who was quite clearly… Well, crazy was one way to put it. She had no doubt inherited the ability to unnerve people from her father, which wasn't a comforting thought.

The public defender resolved to keep her questions and suspicions to herself for the rest of the day. Marty was in for a good ass-kicking later…

- o – o -

Trip and Liz slouched back into the apartment four hours later, accompanied by Noodle and Dana Faraday. Noodle didn't look happy, and Dana looked like she was trying to figure out if laughing or crying was an appropriate response. Not only was Trip an excellent southpaw, but he'd apparently picked up some sort of cricket-based trick from Liz during school. The coach was practically weeping when Dana said she'd _think_ about letting her son join—although he did look appropriately relieved when she told him Liz probably wasn't going to join. (The little league wouldn't be able to handle the insurance premiums, for one thing.)

Liz was in some sort of mood, though. Trip couldn't, for the life of him, remember what was so important that would leave her in such a bad mood. Whatever it was, though, it had ruined any chance she'd ever have of playing sports. That might have been her plan, though… Somehow, though, Trip didn't think that was the case—if it had been, she'd be fine again and cracking jokes in a thick accent that no one but her father would be able to understand.

The ten-year-old sighed and gave a mental shrug. She'd snap out of it eventually—she always did. And besides, there were more important things to deal with tonight; specifically, getting Gerry Blander back into the fold. He'd been a great friend in the original timeline, even if he spent his life in the clouds. At least Gerry was cheerful…

Trip tapped Liz on the shoulder as soon as they were out of the adults' earshot. "Give. What's wrong?" he asked, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms over his chest. It had been a casually menacing gesture that had served him well as a vigilante, but on a child, the look was rather ridiculous. Judging by the look on Liz's face, she was thinking the same thing.

"Ain't none of your business," she growled, brushing past him into his room. Trip sighed and rubbed his temples. There was another Liz-induced migraine coming on, he could tell… Maybe he'd forgotten her birthday or something.

An hour later, as the sun began to set, Trip was sitting at his computer, trying to remember how he'd configured the webcam last time. He wanted to be sure that Gerry came up and informed him of the right setup. It would be years after the fact, in the original timeline, that Gerry confessed that he'd needed to feel like something in his life was under control. Technology was his forte and not much else—it was the only thing keeping his life from going completely down the pipes, Trip had learned.

He had no desire to screw the meeting up this time.

Trip looked over at his bed, where Liz was reading one of his comics. She hadn't turned a page in over twenty minutes, though, and was staring at the ceiling while trying to pretend she was interested in the adventures of the Cape and whoever his current nemesis was. The ten-year-old sighed and rubbed his temples again, abandoning the project he was working on.

"Seriously, Liz, what's wrong with you?" he asked, glaring at his friend. Liz looked like she was about to reply when his mother came in. Trip bit back his annoyed growl and smiled at his mom.

"Trip, I'm going to Marty and Susan's party," Dana said. "Mrs. Morris is next door, and Noodle is still…around." Judging by her expression, the public defender didn't think too highly of Noodle's ability to look after anything, much less a child. Neither Trip nor Liz felt like contradicting that opinion, because it was kind of true. "Behave yourselves, and I should be back in two to three hours."

Trip raised an eyebrow. Last time around, his mother hadn't put a specific time limit on her trip to Marty's home. Maybe she was trying to make sure she got back before something blew up or was set on fire. Good plan, that one…

"Hey mom," Trip spoke up as his mother was about to leave. She turned back to look at him. "I know Marty's being a bit of a loser, but… Go easy on him?" He gave her a half-hearted smile, which his mother returned.

"Alright sweetie," Dana said softly. She kissed the top of his head, ruffled his hair a little, and left. Liz and Trip waited for the door to close before turning to look at each other.

"And you're defending Marty…why?" Liz asked.

"CJ tried to kill me a few months ago," Trip replied. "Before we traveled," he clarified, seeing Liz's expression. "He blamed the Cape for his father's death. While I do want Marty to grow a conscience, I don't want it to be at his family's expense."

"Alright," Liz conceded. She could understand loyalty like that. Loyalty was the root of her father's organization. His underlings and workers were loyal to him because he could guarantee them their jobs and livelihoods, and because he wanted loyalty in return. The respect came with the territory as an added bonus—there was a reason the docks had become something of a No-man's land following his death. No one wanted to pretend that they could fill the shoes the smuggler had left behind. (Liz had brought an entirely new pair with her when she assumed his duties at the age of thirteen; there was speculation that they'd have been sparkly pink high heels with black soles if they'd ever taken corporeal form. Scales' shoes would have been black work boots with a solid steel toe for dealing massive injuries.)

Trip decided not to question his good fortune that Liz didn't press the issue any further. He really didn't want to try to explain the nuances of why he was so indebted to the Voyts. It would have been…uncomfortable.

The two children jumped when Gerry appeared at the window. It wasn't that hard to understand why—he was very good at coming in at unexpected moments. Gerry was creepier than Orwell in that area and he didn't even have to try.

"Gerry, if you want to find a werewolf, Piccadilly Circus is a good place to start," Liz said, breaking in on the boy's monologue. With that, she cemented her place as one of Gerry's favorite people.

"If you're trying to record," Gerry continued, turning to Trip, "you're doing it all wrong. This needs to go here," the nine-year-old said, "and that needs to be turned off." Trip sat back and watched Gerry work, a look of awe on his face. It truly was amazing to watch.

"And that should do it," Gerry finished with a smile.

"He's amazing, isn't he?" Liz said with a smile, ruffling Gerry's hair. "Can I keep him?"

"Down," Trip ordered, shooting a look at Gerry. He shrugged, as if to say _girls; what can you say?_ Gerry smiled and nodded. Trip returned his attention to Liz. "So, what were you saying about why you're such a grumpy bear today?"

Liz's face fell again. She chewed on her lower lip for almost a minute before sighing. "It's just…a shooting, happened today. A while ago. Me best friend died." Trip's eyes widened slightly, and he suddenly remembered what the problem was.

When Liz was eleven, her father had been beaten to death by Owl Island guards who'd been bought by ARK. Portman had fired the men responsible, and had personally ensured the prosecution had all the evidence they needed. Mysteriously, however, all three men had committed suicide. No evidence existed to suggest foul play, but Trip was pretty sure that Liz or her allies in the organized crime sector had been directly involved and that the suicides had actually been murders.

"Hugs always make me feel better," Gerry piped up. "Do you want one?" Without even waiting for confirmation, he hugged the future smuggler. Trip winced, waiting for the inevitable attack on Gerry. He looked up when, after two minutes, he hadn't heard any yelps of pain that would indicate an attack. Liz had a look of surprise on her face. Gerry let her go a few minutes later with a smile.

"Thanks, Gerry," Liz said thickly, before looking away. Gerry sat next to Trip and talked about computers for the next half hour while Liz pulled her usual composure back together.

The power outage was just par for the course during their lives. At least some things were normal, he decided with a smile.

Except the ice cream raid. But he could live without the upset stomach this time.

Friends were always nice to have.

- o – o -

What'd you think? Good? Bad? Disappointed that Trip is grown up enough to not raid the freezer for ice cream? Drop a line and let me know!


	12. Distractions

Hey, it's a new chapter! Dana's got more romantic options than she knows what to do with...

Beta'ed by the lovely WtchCool.

- o – o -

Chapter Twelve: Distractions

Dana honestly worried about Trip's friends, some days. Oh, Gerry was alright, even with his fascination with the supernatural. It was Liz who bothered her, though. The girl had befriended Trip almost automatically; that, in and of itself, was a little suspicious. That Liz was also the daughter of Palm City's second most notorious criminal was worrisome to the extreme.

But that little fact wasn't what was bothering her. No, that was reserved for the bouquet of flowers on her kitchen table. Liz had come over the day before with Trip and Gerry, and had brought the massive bouquet of flowers with her. The nine-year-old had informed her that her father had sent them for Mrs. Faraday.

If she didn't know better, she might have suspected that her son's best friend was trying to set her up with Scales. Unfortunately, she couldn't concentrate on that at the moment because she had work and her boss to deal with. (Honestly, taking up with Scales would be preferable—at least he wasn't trying the "comfort the grieving widow" routine…)

She also had to figure out what she was going to do about the Cape. He was…well, possessive was a good term to apply to him. The vigilante was always concerned for her safety, and he did seem to want to form some kind of relationship with her, but it was like something was holding him back from doing so. Dana wanted to believe that was because he was Vince's friend, but something about that scenario seemed a bit off. At least her vigilante wasn't a criminal like Scales, or a sleaze like her boss…

Dana sighed and shoved the last of her papers into her briefcase; relationships were becoming _way_ too complicated these days. And besides, she had work to finish, and that meant digging through the archives on a Saturday morning when she could be at home, drinking coffee and watching the news. The public defender checked on her son on her way out of the apartment, smiling as she saw him curled around a stuffed alligator. She had a pretty good idea who was responsible for that one.

Half an hour later, Dana was cursing rush hour traffic and doing her best not to hammer her fist into the horn as hard as possible. It never helped, no matter how much she wanted it to. It was cathartic, though, and… Damn. Dana sighed and beat her forehead into the steering wheel. The third ambulance in the past hour had driven past, heading for what was apparently holding up traffic. If she'd walked, she could have been at the office by now…

Dana grumbled something under her breath and cracked open her book. Since traffic hadn't moved in the past ten or twelve minutes, she could try to finish the first chapter…

- o – o -

Trip slouched out of his room, wondering if his mother had left any coffee for him. He knew it wasn't exactly healthy for a growing boy, but he was addicted anyways. (And avoiding topping six-and-a-half feet in height would be completely worth the caffeine.)

There was a fresh pot waiting for him in the kitchen, with a note from his mother taped to his mug. Trip glowered at the note, which admonished him to drink a little less—or at least add milk to his coffee, because god knew he wasn't getting enough calcium. He stuffed the note into his pocket all the same. The ten-year-old poured a mug of coffee and headed back to the den to watch cartoons and scheme. The Lich was going to be making his move soon, and that was bad.

The ten-year-old was halfway through reruns of the Animaniacs when someone knocked on the door. Trip considered pretending he wasn't there, but realized that the cartoons (blasting at full volume because his neighbors were pretty much deaf, and Gerry was out of the building for the next few hours) kind of negated that idea. Telling them to go away probably wouldn't work either, because they were probably here to talk to his mother.

He sighed and put his mug down on the coffee table, before walking over to the door. Standing on his stack of phonebooks, the ten-year-old looked out into the hallway. Trip felt his heart plummet to the vicinity of his shoes. Two months ago, when they'd first begun plotting, Trip would have given anything for Jack Kirchner to show up out of the blue. But now that Liz was pushing their parents together—mostly in an attempt to get Vince to stop being an idiot, and get Scales to be a bit more conscientious about the civilian population of Palm City—it was _incredibly_ bad timing.

"Who are you?" Trip asked, staring at Jack.

"I'm Jack Kirchner. Is Dana Faraday here?" Jack replied, smiling.

"Can I take a message?" Trip asked, stalling for time. This was not a good thing. This was _far_ from a good thing, in fact. If Scales hadn't sent a bouquet of flowers yesterday, he would have felt a lot better about letting Jack in. Seeing as Scales had this jealousy issue (he'd heard all about it from Liz), he was afraid for Jack's continued existence.

"Can you let her know that I stopped by?" Jack asked. Trip nodded, and was about to respond when the phone rang.

"Hang on," Trip muttered, before slamming the peephole shut. He hopped off the stack of books and headed over to the phone. "Yeah? Mom? No way, I'm fine! Wait…" Trip frowned, lips pursing in annoyance. That wasn't good. He was going to have to mention Travis's interest to Liz, who would (hopefully) pass it on to Scales. Okay, so those raging jealousy issues were good for _something_. "Hey mom, guess who's standing out… No! It's not Scales! I'd have let him in if that was the case."

He paused, and waited for his mother's reply. It wasn't exactly charitable towards Scales, but it was funny. "Mom, it's Jack Kirchner. …How do I know about him? Well, you could hide your law school yearbook a bit better."

Trip held the phone away from his ear. That wasn't going to end well…. He was grounded.

"Okay, I'll let him in. And give him coffee."

The ten-year-old hopped back up on his stack of books after hanging up. "Mom said you can come in." He unlocked the door and let the lawyer in before the man could process anything. Jack came into the apartment and sat down on the couch. Trip looked over and bit his lower lip, forcing back some old memories. He'd seen Jack sitting like that once before—he'd been sixteen, and had run away from home.

Vince had just died for real, shot to death by ARK troops while he was trying to protect people. Trip had been out driving when he'd almost literally run into his father. The teenager had thrown caution to the wind and done what his dad had told him stories about—courage under fire to rescue teammates. The funeral three days later had been teary and there had been no shortage of stories about the Cape and his adventures. Patrick Portman had even shown up to give the eulogy, although he'd been there incognito—like the majority of the people who'd come. Given that Vince Faraday was supposed to be dead, the carnival had waited until sundown before going to the graveyard to put Vince's body in the grave his wife had purchased seven years before.

Trip had spent the next few days locked in his room and screaming at his mother and much-hated stepfather every time they knocked. Eventually, he'd packed a bag and left through the window, heading for Trolley Park. A week after he'd run away, he ran into Jack Kirchner—thankfully _not_ with a car.

One thing had led to another, and Jack had helped him get emancipated. It helped that Jack hated Travis almost as much as Trip did (although Trip hated his stepfather because the bastard had tried to send him to a boarding school run by a group known for abusing the students). After that, Trip had utilized Jack's services more than once when he needed legal help for the carnival, who'd taken him in after his father's death.

Trip jerked himself out of the memory, suddenly aware that he'd been staring at Jack. He coughed, rubbing the back of his neck. The start of an embarrassed blush was starting across his nose and cheeks.

"Um…would you like some coffee, Mr. Kirchner?" Trip asked, breaking the awkward silence.

Jack studied him for a few minutes, before nodding. "That would be wonderful. Thank you."

The ten-year-old scurried out of the den to get some coffee.

- o – o -

Dana was almost relieved when she finished getting the files she needed from the archive. Protecting people from ARK was nothing new, but this was the first time she'd had to protect someone with a history of being on the wrong side of law enforcement. If she was lucky, though, she could talk her client into wearing his hair in a more sedate manner—without colors or odd styles—on his court date. Although why she even had to defend someone who'd only double-parked his car was beyond her, but that was ARK. Bastards….

She drove home, going over the case mentally. She could get her client off with a fine, but the issue of him mooning an ARK officer was going to be a bit trickier… (And Dana was positive she was going to need a hell of a lot of Tylenol during the hearing.)

The public defender let herself into the building, still focused on legal matters. Dana was pretty sure she was forgetting something, but decided it'd come back to her later if it was important. As soon as she opened the door, she realized what it was: Jack. She'd forgotten that Jack had come by three hours ago.

Dana leaned against the doorframe, watching her old teacher trying to beat her son at a video game. Trip was beating him, which wasn't a surprise. The public defender wished she had a camera, because this was practically blackmail gold. Not that she'd actually blackmail Jack, of course…

"Hi mom!" Trip said, ruining the moment. He paused the game, much to Jack's relief. "How come you never told me how cool lawyers were?"

Dana laughed at that.

- o – o -

So, what did you think? Good? Bad? Any thoughts on who you want Dana to end up with? Drop a line and let me know!


	13. Cartoon Heroes

Hey, it's a new chapter! Dana's got four love interests, and only two of them are appealing.

Beta'ed by the lovely WtchCool, who gets a plate of virtual cookies for the rush job she did.

- o – o -

Chapter thirteen: Cartoon Heroes

Liz had never been a fan of large public gatherings. Even years of get-togethers with various mob bosses that Palm City played host to hadn't helped—it had probably made her loathe social gatherings even more, but that wasn't the point. The Founders' Day Parade had never held much interest for her, but she'd been dragged to it, practically kicking and screaming.

The day before, she'd convinced her father to let her friends sleep over. Given that she'd put him off-balance with the request, it had worked. Scales had, eventually, become rather pleased with the fact that his daughter was making friends. (Gerry had cemented his position as Scales' second-favorite child after he'd fixed the smuggler's BlackBerry, which had refused to work since Scales had bought it.)

Today, her friends had convinced Scales—somehow, and she _would_ figure out what they'd said to her father—to take them to the Founders' Day Parade.

_Although,_ Liz thought, staring up at her father, who had his arms crossed over his chest and was glowering at anyone who looked at him, _maybe it wasn't such a trial._ She just wished Trip and Gerry would stop foisting candy into her lap—they weren't giving her any of the caramels.

"Cheer up, Lizzy Lizard," Trip said cheerfully, giving her a strand of cheap plastic beads. "We've only got another hour to go."

"Kill me," Liz grumbled, burying her face in her knees. Trip laughed and patted her on the back.

"Have a caramel," Gerry said, passing her one of the candies. Liz sighed, and decided she'd leave the two moronic boys alone for the time being. Gerry especially, though. Caramels were delicious.

So maybe the _entire_ parade wouldn't be a crapshoot…

- o – o -

Vince was practically fuming as he paced around the rooftops. Somehow, Dana had decided that letting their _son_ hang out around a dangerous criminal was alright. What was even worse was that his wife was almost friendly with said dangerous criminal. He sighed and began punching his fist into his other hand as he thought. Dana and Scales were getting friendly—although the only romantic inclinations were coming from the gecko, thank god. But Dana was getting romantic with _Jack_. Jack Kirchner, the bane of his existence.

The Cape growled something obscene under his breath. If Dana didn't need all the friends she could get at the moment, he'd have killed Jack for getting so close to her. As it was, he was really considering it…

He'd come to the parade just to make sure none of Chandler's minions had managed to sneak another float in to spray the crowd with the corpse dust. So far, the most menacing thing he'd seen was Scales breaking a would-be purse snatcher's fingers. Vince couldn't exactly fault him for that…in a very, very small corner of his heart, buried deep somewhere he never actually went, anyways, he approved. Alright, so he wasn't perfect. Who was?

Vince sat down on the ledge, chewing on his lower lip. Orwell was missing, and there was no indication as to where she was. The only thing he'd been able to find was an e-mail that he couldn't trace back to a reliable source, warning her to take a gas mask with her if she went to find the Chandler heir. Alright, that was an indication. But she was still missing, and he had no idea where she'd gone to find the missing heir.

Marty wasn't exactly being helpful either, which was in and of itself a pain in the ass. One would think that, after saving him from a nutcase, the Chief of Police would be a tad bit more helpful. Of course, this wasn't a comic book, and Marty was the chief bootlicker for the man who'd ruined Vince's life. Help from that angle was only going to come if Marty's life or family was at stake, which wasn't likely to happen soon.

The vigilante watched the parade end and waited for the crowds to disperse before leaving himself. He told himself that it was so he could make sure nothing unexpected happened, but he wasn't fooling anyone. He just wanted to make sure Scales didn't try to put the moves on Dana. Given that he'd seen her laugh and playfully smack the smuggler with a magazine after the smuggler had tried to kiss her hand, Vince wasn't too worried. Well…not so much.

He vanished in a puff of smoke, mentally going over the reasons why killing Scales was a bad idea.

It was a very short list.

- o – o -

Dana returned to her apartment, Trip and Gerry in tow. Scales had tried to invite the three of them to lunch, but Dana had begged off. She hadn't been entirely comfortable with leaving her son and his friend with the smuggler either, despite the fact that the man had this rabid Rottweiler-like tendency to defend his daughter and her friends from any threat, real or perceived. (And, alright, he'd apparently been an excellent host when Liz had convinced him to let her friends stay over for a night. Trip was still going on about how cool Scales was as a father—and Dana was _sure_ he'd been talking to the Cape as he raved about the deformed smuggler. Something about that… Well, it seemed like he was sneaking around, trying to get the Cape to do something. Whatever it was, the public defender wasn't sure she wanted to know.)

Speaking of the Cape, Dana thought as she began rummaging through the fridge for something to either make or reheat for dinner, she hadn't seen him in a few days. He was probably off doing hero things, but… Not having him present was like missing Vince, in a way. The Cape had somehow become a fixture of her family over the past few months; missing him was like…well, like a family member cutting off all contact. That was the worrisome thing—she was beginning to think of the Cape as family.

She _really_ needed to get out more. Maybe Jack's offer of a date was still valid…

Dana sighed as she caught sight of the wilting bouquet on her table. Scales had sent it a few days ago, when Liz had come over to play and do homework with Trip. Gerry had been sick with the flu, and had been unable to come upstairs to the Faraday apartment, so Liz had come over to fill in the gap and make sure Gerry wasn't bored.

If the girl had been anyone else, Dana would have complimented her parents on raising such a wonderful, caring child. As Liz's father was Scales, though… Well, it was just food for thought. Maybe the mysterious, absentee Lydia had instilled those values in her daughter. Dana kind of hoped so, or she'd have to revise a lot of her opinions on Scales. Opinions that she'd held onto for quite a while…

The public defender shut the fridge door with a little more force than necessary. On top of that, she now had to deal with the attempts of the aforementioned smuggler to court her. She was trying to juggle Travis (whose affections were rather unwanted), and Jack (whose affections were much more wanted than either prior option), along with Scales. And then there was the Cape. She had four men vying for her attention, and she only wanted two of them to actively try. One of them was a respected lawyer who'd offered her a partnership in a law firm if she wanted to quit her job as a public defender, and the other was a masked vigilante.

She _really_ needed a date.

"Mom, the Cape's on the roof. He needs to talk to you. It's important." Dana looked up at her son and sighed.

"Of course it is." What was one more law broken today?

- o – o -

So, what did you think? Good? Bad? Have an opinion on who Dana should end up with? Drop a line and let me know!


	14. So Much For My Happy Ending

Hey, it's a new chapter! Liz faces some of the consequences of meddling, and the Cape is still a moron.

Beta'ed by the wonderful WtchCool.

- o – o -

Chapter fourteen: So Much For My Happy Ending

Elizabeth Raoul knew what day it was. She just wasn't so sure her father knew, or remembered. Even Trip knew (so did Gerry, if the cheesy e-card was anything to go by). But her father had forgotten. When she and Trip had started out on their mission to make their fathers less idiotic and more intelligent, nearly a year ago, she hadn't expected that her father's sudden influx of a metaphorical spine would make him forget her birthday.

Or, for that matter… football. He'd completely forgotten about football. Liz wasn't sure which worried her more: The lack of even a morning greeting and the pancakes he usually made for her birthday, or the fact that he wasn't even interested in the Manchester derby. It was probably going to be the derby that worried her more, though…

Liz sighed and flopped back on her bed, holding an old, ratty stuffed alligator to her chest. In the past few months—mostly since the train thing—the smuggling operation had gotten bigger. A _lot_ bigger, actually… Hell, even she hadn't managed to do that when she'd been head of the organization, and she was a lot more level-headed than Scales had been. (There was a reason she was called Snake Eyes, after all.)

The nine-year-old sat up and stared at her door, hoping her father would come in with an apology and his usual "I'm trying to hide something and being a moron about how I'm supposed to do that" smile in place. She'd missed that—a lot.

She ended up waiting three hours before she heard the door in the foyer slam. The former smuggler crept out of her room and perched on the landing, watching the goings-on in the hall. It looked like Scales had organized a meet instead. That was odd… Usually he held those at the docks. Unless… What was Molinari doing here? Or Johnny the Bull?

"Dad hates Johnny," Liz muttered under her breath as she slammed the door to her bedroom. Okay, so she was being petty with that. It wasn't like it was her birthday being forgotten, or anything _important_ like that. She called Trip up on Skype as soon as she'd wedged a chair under the doorknob. She needed him to search Orwell's files, or at least get Gerry to do it for him. Something was _seriously_ up.

- o – o -

Trip had been expecting a nice quiet evening. His father hadn't gotten the supremely _stupid_ idea of infiltrating Scales' gang this time around, and was instead keeping his nose clean. Well, mostly. Trip had _no_ idea who'd tagged Travis' car, but he had a pretty good idea who was behind it. (Mostly. For all he knew, Travis could live in an area with vandals or something.)

His mother had invited Jack over for dinner, and it had been… Well, not pleasant, but nice. The atmosphere was a lot less strained than any time Travis had been over. It still wasn't as good as his dad being there, but it was close. Trip leaned back in his seat, feeling that all was well with the world.

Skype had to interrupt his pleasant day dreams.

The ten-year-old former vigilante shot his computer a dark look and wished he had a mallet he could use to smash it to return to his pleasant little day dream about his dad coming home and taking the stupid mask off for Dana. The program made the annoying bubble sound again, refusing to be ignored.

Trip groaned and opened it up so he could see whoever it was. He wasn't expecting to see Liz. Wasn't she supposed to be at some glitzy, mob-style birthday party, or something? She was nine, and it was her last year in the single digits. That _had_ to be a big deal for a single parent, especially one as nutty as Scales.

-_I need you to take a look through Orwell's files_- Liz began without so much as a hello or a how are you. Given that it was her usual style, Trip wasn't too bothered by it. But that she wanted him to break into Orwell's secure files… _That_ worried him just a little bit.

"Um…why?" Trip asked. "Not that I won't, but… I'm just curious."

Liz glowered at him. Given that she was at least six miles away in some hidden compound (or in Copper Hills, but it was pretty much the same thing), it didn't have the same effect. –_I need you to do this because 'm worried about me dad, a'right?_- Liz said. She was chewing her lower lip, the glower from just a few seconds ago vanished like it never had been.

"Oh boy," Trip muttered, pulling up another screen on his computer. If Liz was worried, something was up. Although given that it was _Scales_ they were talking about… Yeah. It was going to end badly. Someone would probably get shot, and then Orwell would have something up on her blog by the morning about ARK being corrupt enough to help known criminals hide bodies. (Although honestly, that would be one hell of a funny exposé to read. Most of them were, in all honesty…)

Of course, there was also the fact that Orwell probably still wasn't in any shape to write another post at the moment. She'd only been rescued from Mister Crazy Toxin, aka the Lich (which gave the man _far_ too much dignity) three days ago, after all. And _that_ was after being his captive for four days. (Hadn't she taken a gas mask with her to use? Trip hadn't thought his hint had been _that_ oblique.)

It took most of an hour, but he found the barest traces of…something. What he found did nothing to cheer him up. From what Orwell had been digging up, in the weeks leading to her…incapacitation, the gangs were planning something. It was big. It was nasty. It was _not_ going to end well. Not after Liz got done with them.

He told her everything.

It wasn't until later that the ten-year-old felt he'd done something incredibly stupid, but it was too late anyways.

- o – o -

Liz padded down the back stairs, stuffed alligator dangling from one hand. She was tired, grumpy, and she'd spent the whole day expecting at least _one_ word of recognition from her father that it was, in fact, her birthday. So far, she'd been disappointed. She was bored, hungry, and the other crime lords were holed up in the kitchen. It was the only place to go for something to eat, unless she wanted to go into her father's study and raid his trail mix. (Not a good idea, even if she _was_ his daughter. He was nutty about knowing if there was something on hand to eat, all the freakin' time. Not that she could blame him, though, all things considered…)

The nine-year-old walked into the kitchen, still lost in thought. If she'd been paying a little more attention (or any attention at all), she would have remembered that the kitchen was soundproof. She would have remembered why, and she would have looked first.

There was a reason her father hadn't come to her room with her usual birthday breakfast—or done anything resembling that. Liz had killed…a lot of people, to put it in the safest way possible, but she'd always had clean kills. She'd never tortured anyone. The man on the kitchen table who was currently being taken apart by a number of the crime lords (well, their thugs; the only boss who was actively helping was Scales) was barely recognizable as Mick Reese.

"Lizzie Lizard," Molinari said, looking up from his spot on the kitchen counter. Everything in the kitchen/torture chamber stopped. Even Molinari's body guard/guy with the eyedrops stopped moving. Scales looked up, a horrific look on his face. He _didn't_ look pleased to see his daughter standing in the kitchen, wide-eyed and open-mouthed in shock and horror.

"Elizabeth Victoria Raoul," Scales growled, pulling the butcher's apron off. He grabbed his daughter by the upper arm and dragged her out of the kitchen and into the family sitting room.

None of the other criminals were present, but they could all hear the dull smacks of flesh meeting flesh. They also had children of their own that they wanted to keep out of the criminal life as much as possible. So Raoul was just laying down the line his daughter couldn't cross (_finally_). What did it matter if she got a spanking in the process? Anything to keep the kids away from the bloody stuff, right?

They didn't comment when Noodle left the room at a look from his employer, or the sobbing. They had too much to deal with anyways. Like finding out just what games ARK was playing. And Mick Reese knew a _lot_ about ARK's little games.

- o – o -

Dana Faraday was, for once, enjoying a Tuesday evening. Trip was safely in his room, probably waiting for the Cape to hit the roof or for Liz to get on Skype. She and Jack had the rest of the apartment to themselves, and a really good bottle of red wine. Jack even knew how to dance when he had two glasses in him. And he was a fantastic kisser, too (and she kind of got annoyed at how the interruptions always came when Jack was kissing her). She growled something under her breath as she headed for the door, not bothering to check before opening it.

Noodle, Liz's sometimes bodyguard and chauffeur was standing there, a brilliantly pink, sparkly backpack on one shoulder and a stuffed alligator clutched in his free hand. Liz was clutching to his other hand with her tiny hands, face hidden in the man's side. Judging by the muffled sounds, she was crying. The little girl looked up, and Dana realized why. Her face and shirtfront were bloody, possibly from a broken nose.

"There's a good story behind this, isn't there?" Dana commented as she let the two into her home. The public defender had a feeling she wasn't going to like it.

She was right.

Noodle explained everything—how it was Liz's birthday, how Scales had forgotten and had a meeting of the local crime lords… How Liz had come downstairs for a snack, after not eating anything all day because she'd been waiting for her usual birthday treats, and gotten a good smacking around instead.

Noodle's tone as he spoke said volumes. Scales had sworn that he'd never raise a hand against any child he had, especially not one that was his only link to his beloved Lydia. (Lydia had been responsible for a lot of Scales' happier memories, if the newspapers and other sources Dana had managed to dig up and consult were true. Although why no one else knew this, the public defender didn't know.) And yet… Here Liz was, sipping hot tea through a straw because her nose was broken.

Dana felt a hard ball of sheer terror and righteous anger settle in her gut. On the one hand, she was sheltering a child from a major criminal player (admittedly it was said criminal's daughter), but on the other, she was putting her own family in danger by doing so. Her first instinct was to run like hell from Palm City, taking Jack, Trip, and Liz with her. Screw the rest of the city; she had children and her boyfriend to protect!

"Alright," the public defender sighed. "Noodle, go to a bar—make sure it looks like you've been there for a while. Get drunk if you have to, but you were _never_ at my home, and you haven't seen Liz since she got injured."

Noodle nodded and left without another word. He did pause to ruffle Liz's hair on the way out, though. Oddly, it didn't draw an annoyed but somewhat wistful scowl from her this time.

After the man was gone, Liz spoke up for the first time since she'd come into the Faraday apartment. "I don't want anyone to know me dad hit me," she said quietly. Dana and Jack both raised their eyebrows at this. "Do you know wot Fleming would do if 'e 'eard any of this?" the little girl said.

And that…made so much sense it was annoying. Liz knew that Fleming would take any opportunity he could to get his witch hunt against Scales made into a reality. Scales, despite his faults, ruled the docks fairly and everyone who worked there was loyal to him. Getting any hint of him not being such a… Well, a paragon of blue-collar virtue would turn every single one of them against him.

Given the current gang war in the city, it wasn't a good idea to give Fleming an inch. Dana sighed.

"Trip is in his room."

What had she just done? And why didn't she care?

- o – o -

So, what did you think? Good? Bad? Wondering what Scales (or heck, even Dana) was thinking? Drop a line and let me know!


	15. Today I'll Stay And Pick A Side

It's a new chapter! Liz is still at the Faradays', and Dana contemplates getting the heck out of dodge.

Beta'ed by the lovely WtchCool.

- o – o -

Chapter fifteen: Today I'll Stay and Pick A Side

Liz spent the rest of the evening and most of the next morning hiding in her best friend's apartment, with the probable intent of staying there until something more suitable could be arranged. School had been cancelled indefinitely, due to the upswing in gang violence. Most of the schools were safe, but the administrators weren't going to count on the neutrality of stray bullets. The gang leaders might want to leave schools and playgrounds alone to keep the city (relatively) peaceful, but their weapons had made no such promises to protect the children.

Trip, while not entirely happy with his best friend hiding out at the Sycamore Boulevard apartment, was still more enthusiastic than his mother. Dana Faraday was a practical woman who liked thinking things through logically (unless she was watching The Good Wife or a romcom or something, in which case logic was cheerfully thrown out the window), and liked order in her world. Having a criminal's daughter—one who'd been beaten by said criminal—was a danger to that order. Trip, on the other hand, suffered from what "Lois and Clark: The New Adventures of Superman" called Superman Syndrome.

In his case, Trip had the pathological need to save people, including his future-smuggler/criminal best friend. _Especially_ his best friend. Liz had often told him that his skull was too thick for something like common sense to get through, but she appreciated that in this case. She didn't have anywhere else to run, because Noodle lived in a hostel, and Kazzie was too loyal to her father at the moment. (Well, he was loyal to the family, but Scales was still alive, so Liz couldn't count on Kazzie extending her the same loyalty just yet. Not that she wanted her father dead, of course, it was just…)

The ten-year-old former vigilante was currently sitting on the countertop in the kitchen, nursing a mug of coffee as he watched his mother make breakfast. Jack was helping her, and Trip wasn't sure if he should be disgusted or a little encouraged by how the lawyer and his mother were acting around each other. For the average ten-year-old, disgust was the typical response. Encouragement, on the other hand… Trip sighed into his coffee and mentally tossed out his plan of ever getting his father back. Well, not as his father, anyways. Jack wouldn't be too bad as a stepfather, Trip supposed. (Jack was a hell of a lot more sensible and better with children than Travis was anyways.)

"Trip, would you please sit at the table like a normal person?" Dana asked, catching sight of her son. "And no backflips off the counter!" Trip smiled at her, and, for the first time in nearly a year, did as he was asked. He simply slid off the counter and padded over to the kitchen table, without spilling a drop of coffee.

"You're a strange bloke," a light, girlish voice commented from the kitchen doorway. The two Faradays and Jack looked up in surprise. Elizabeth Raoul was in the doorway, holding her stuffed alligator under one arm and an empty mug in her free hand. Her nose was still crooked, but her face was no longer covered in blood. She'd even gotten a clean shirt on, although judging by the logo on the front, the nine-year-old had borrowed it from Trip's closet.

"Hi Lizzy," Trip said. "You want some coffee?"

Dana had half a mind to reprimand her son for being so casual around a girl who'd been beaten by her own father, before realizing that normality was probably the best thing for Liz at the moment. She had to hide a smile in Jack's shoulder when Liz made the appropriate retching noises and declined the offer of coffee. At least there was _one_ normal child under the roof. Well, mostly normal.

Half an hour later, the two children had retreated to Trip's room with their breakfasts, after Dana had extracted promises from them to return their dishes to the kitchen immediately after they were finished. And given that they were talking to a lawyer, the promises were impossible to wriggle out of any time soon. Dana was a stickler for dirty dishes being where they were supposed to be—in the kitchen waiting to be washed, and _not_ in someone's bedroom to attract flies and other disgusting little bugs.

Trip spent ten minutes watching Liz pick at her food with a glum expression before he broke the silence. "Why are you being so…boring?" he asked. "Normally, you're the one who's suggesting we do stupid things, and I'm the one who's dragging my feet on going along with it."

"Like robbing an ARK convoy in the dead of night, via sports cars loaded with NOx?" Liz asked quietly. She flicked a piece of scrambled egg to the other side of the plate, watching it bounce off the edge of a piece of toast, which was getting soggy.

"You actually did that?" Trip asked, staring at her. He'd thought Liz was crazy, but…

"It's from a movie," the nine-year-old sighed. "Where do you think I get me ideas?"

"I hadn't thought of that," Trip replied, leaning back in his chair. "Okay, fine, whatever. But why are you so glum? It's not like you can't manipulate things back to normal, can't you?"

Liz glared at him, emphasizing her blackened, swollen eyes and now-permanently crooked nose. Trip winced at the reminder. "This is wot 'appened when I manipulated t'ings," she replied softly, accent thick. "Me dad's go' a spine, an' I don't 'ave me dad anymore."

Trip raised an eyebrow at that. This wasn't going to end well, was it?

- o – o -

Scales was not the type of man who drank often, if he did at all. Most of the alcohol he kept in the house was for disinfecting the various wounds that came with being a smuggler, or for getting some of his people drunk if they needed a bullet pulled out of various body parts. (He didn't drink like they did when that happened, but he had a higher pain tolerance than most people on the planet.)

That being said, when he woke up with a roaring headache and the feeling that someone had been using his skull to break open a bank vault, he knew why. Hangovers weren't pleasant. Someone, probably Kazzie, had left a bottle of Gatorade and a small cup of pills on his bedside table. Scales drank the Gatorade and ignored the pills. He knew why he'd gotten so drunk, and didn't feel the need to get rid of the headache any time soon—he deserved it, after all.

And then he saw the note, and wondered how long he'd be able to milk the hangover to avoid this _particular_ meeting. Peter Fleming had asked (_ordered_, Scales muttered mentally, because it would take a fool to not understand that Fleming controlled everything) him to come to a private meeting to discuss a mutual business opportunity.

Given that his chief of police, that tosser Marty Voyt, was being tried for Chess' crimes—and the recent torture and murder of Mick Reese—Scales could guess what the meeting was about. Scales just wanted to crawl back into bed and pretend the rest of the world didn't exist, at least until his headache went away on its own. Of course, he'd brought the circumstances leading up to his drunken state upon himself, so…

Scales was not a man who broke his promises easily. When he'd married Lydia, he'd promised her that he would never raise a hand to any children they had, for any reason. Lydia, understanding his reasons, had agreed that it was probably a wise precaution. And last night, he'd broken that promise and more. His daughter, his only child, had come into the kitchen, no doubt in search of a snack. Not thinking clearly—probably out of anger, or something equally stupid—he'd smacked her around like his foster father had smacked him around.

Given that he hadn't seen her since waking up, Scales had to assume she'd run away, possibly to the Faraday's apartment. He wasn't going to check, and he wasn't going to ask any of his people to check. The smuggler didn't like what he'd done, and he was afraid of losing control again. No child deserved that.

He groaned and buried his face in his hands as someone knocked on his bedroom door. His headache was going to kill him, and he was still avoiding the Tylenol and Vitamin C that would make it go away faster.

Kazzie came into the room, carrying a garment bag folded over one arm and a mug of coffee in the other. He had a disapproving look on his face that Scales knew, for a fact, the man used on his children—although Kazzie had probably picked it up from his wife. If Kazzie could be scary, Mrs. Kaczanowiczk was downright terrifying. Not that Scales minded, though…

"If you're going to yell at me," Scales said in a low voice, trying not to wince, "will you please jus' ge' it o'er with?" He accepted the mug of coffee from Kazzie, noting that the coffee had a good deal more bitter than he was used to. That was probably the hangover talking.

"No, I'm not going to yell at you," Kazzie said in an unpleasantly sweet tone, "my wife has already reserved _that_ honor." Scales blanched and wondered if hiding in a foreign country would be a feasible solution. Probably not, considering Kazzie's wife. "Anyways, get dressed. Kwan, that prick, said you agreed to the meet with Fleming. I'll kill him later."

That was only if Kazzie got to the man first, Scales thought darkly as he showered and changed into the suit his right-hand man had brought up. Half an hour later, he was at the back door to a tailor shop, a ball of dread settled firmly in his gut. Somehow, he knew beyond a doubt this wasn't going to end well.

"Would you like to know why your daughter and her broken nose and black eyes are on the front page of the _Palm City Herald_?"

That little ball of dread was now about the size of a football, and Scales had to quash the urge to rip Fleming limb from limb.

- o – o -

Dana paced around her living room, shooting dark looks at the paper on the coffee table every so often. She was just glad that Trip and Liz were preoccupied on the roof, doing something with an old computer Gerry had given them. The three pre-teens were building a laser, or at least trying to. (Dana wouldn't really put it past them to build one, but she also wasn't going to encourage them.)

The reason for her annoyance with the paper was the headline. Somehow, the _Herald_ had gotten a photograph of Liz's broken nose and bruised face, and was running it as the main story. It had been picked up by almost every major publication in Palm City. Scales' only saving grace, as far as Dana had read, was that no reporter had been able to find Scales or Liz (although the papers were calling her Lissa, for some reason) for a direct comment on the situation. Everything was speculation, although most of them were pointing to child abuse. That was…worrisome. Dana knew that Liz was still loyal to her father—stupidly so, Dana thought privately—and wouldn't let anyone say anything against him.

The public defender sighed and flopped down on the leather sofa with a sigh, kicking her feet up on the cushions so she could stretch out. She fished around in the pile of magazines and newspapers on her coffee table for the remote control, intent on watching something stupid or with romance… or The Good Wife.

Dana's plan was interrupted by the voices of two children, arguing loudly. By the sounds of it, Liz was calling Trip an idiot, and Trip was loudly insisting that his father was still alive.

"Because a comic book character told him so" was Trip's argument. Dana wondered if the school's suggestion that she find her son some good counseling wasn't such a bad idea after all. Or maybe a good lesson in logic. Just because the Cape told him something didn't mean it was true, after all. There was something about the vigilante that made her uneasy…

The two children continued past her to the kitchen, still arguing about the merits of information gained from a vigilante who thought he was a comic book character. So far, the argument didn't seem to be agreeing with either child.

The next time the Cape dropped by, Dana thought, she was going to force him to take the mask off. That, or she was going to sit on him and take it off. The secrecy and his never looking her in the eye was…_beyond_ worrisome, as far as things went.

Dana gave up on trying to find the remote and decided to listen to the messages on her answering machine. This was going to be a long day, and she was too lazy to go turn the TV on manually.

-_Mrs. Faraday, this is Dominic Raoul. I know we've met only once, but I _know_ my daughter would run to your home if she were ever in trouble and couldn't come to me for…whatever reason._-

Dana stared at her answering machine in shock, wondering if what she was hearing was correct.

-_I don't care if she's there or not, but please… Just… Let her know that I have _never_ meant to hurt her. If she never wants to speak to me again, or see me again, I'll understand—but let me know so that I can at least provide for her upbringing._-

There was a slight note of hesitation in his voice. To Dana, it meant that Scales was about to do something monumentally stupid, or he was casting about for a lie. Her clients had the same pause in their voices when they went to trial.

-_In any event, I would consider it a personal favor if you would take me girl out of t'is city. Fleming is planning to have someone kill Marty Voyt and his family. Y' might no' 'ave seen the news yet, but Fleming's arrested 'is chief of police an' is framing 'im for Chess' crimes. 'E's tried t' 'ire me to kill Voyt in the event of the chief's escape, but I refused… As a result, you an' your kid may be in danger, an' so is me daughter if she's wiv you. Don't tell me if she's t'ere, I don't trust meself around 'er just yet, but protect her. For me. Please_.-

Dana stared at the answering machine for a good long while after the message cut off. She'd replayed it several times just to be sure she'd heard everything. She had. Scales was begging her, literally _begging_ her to protect his daughter and get out of the city with her family. Now, more than ever, she needed to apply logic to this.

For logic, she needed Jack…or her husband.

Dana turned to face the window with a scowl. She had to face the Cape, and get her answers.

- o – o -

So, what did you think? Good? Bad? Think I should stop making Peter the bad guy? Drop a line and let me know.

Also, I've been informed that changing the title of the last chapter to "It's My Party and I'll Cry If I Want To" would be more fitting. What do you think?


	16. The Times, They Are A Changin'

Hey, it's a new chapter! Dana becomes a magnet for confessions, and loose threads are wrapped up.

Beta'ed by the lovely WtchCool.

- o – o -

Chapter sixteen: The Times, They Are A Changin'

Liz sat half on the floor, half on the couch as she watched the newscast. Being upside down made it about…thirty percent more bearable. Not by much, but… Whatever. She sighed and then winced, rubbing her nose gingerly. She'd broken it before, but biologically speaking, this was the first time she'd done so. The first time always hurt the worst. Ow.

"You're looking fabulously broody," Trip commented, walking into the room. He put a mug on the table and flopped down on the sofa, managing not to spill a drop of coffee from his mug. He smiled at Liz's glare and sipped his coffee.

"Eff off," Liz grumbled, sitting up and pulling herself onto the couch. Trip, who'd spent a good chunk of time learning how to contort his body like Raia and some of the other acrobats in the carnival could, was suitably impressed. He made a mental note to learn how Liz had managed to crawl onto the sofa without sitting or standing up. It looked kind of cool.

"I stand corrected—you're not broody, you're moody. When did you start—"

"Finish that sentence, and I will rip your tongue out," Liz snarled, punching Trip in the arm. Trip yelped as hot coffee sloshed over his chest. Liz smirked at him as he tried to mop the spilled coffee up.

"Waste of good coffee," Trip grumbled. Liz smiled at him over the rim of her mug. Her nose had healed sufficiently in the last two days that she could—if she were very careful—drink tea without the aid of a straw. "So, what was so fascinating that it had to be watched upside down?"

"Marty Voyt's in custody, pending a psych evaluation," Liz replied cheerfully. Trip would have been more offended at the cheerfulness, except he kind of hated Marty too. Their relationship hadn't improved after he'd asked Marty if he and Fleming were having sex. Oddly, Susan hadn't been _quite_ as distant… That was odd: And disturbing, but mostly odd, as far as he was concerned. Oh well.

"Why does he need a psych eval?" Trip asked, already knowing the answer.

"He swore in front of the court that Peter Fleming was Chess."

Trip sighed. Some days…

"Yeah, that's what your mom said," Liz replied. She smiled, before frowning. "Huh. Fleming was a bit…weird, though." _For Liz_, Trip thought, weird _meant a_ lot _of things_. It could have meant she was out of tea, the shipment was late, or there was a bit of bad weather coming her way and her umbrella was on the other side of the city. (He'd been unfortunate enough to be near her when all three had occurred. Somehow, he'd ended up getting thrown out a window on all three occasions.)

"How weird was weird?" Trip asked, dreading the answer.

"Spock eyebrow," Liz replied. It took Trip a few seconds to get the reference.

"Think Jamie was in his thoughts?"

"Poor girl."

"Amen," Trip replied, taking a swig of coffee. He grimaced at the grains in the bottom of his mug. It was disgusting, how he always seemed to get those, even when he got the first mug. Gross. "So, what exactly are we doing tonight?"

"The same thing we do every night, Pinky," Liz replied, absolutely deadpan. Trip chuckled. "No, we're actually going to work out what to do about our fathers. Mine… Well…" She trailed off, chewing her lower lip as she stared into her mug of coffee.

"You're more used to him not being there," Trip said. "And now that he's noticing you—and breaking your nose—you have no idea what to do. You know," the ten-year-old continued, "I always wanted to see you at a loss for words, but… I kinda wanted to be responsible for it."

"I think the concussions made you forget the week after me seventeenth birthday," Liz replied. Trip flushed. Okay, that was different. For one thing, he hadn't actually been meaning to proposition her, but… It had happened. It'd been fantastic and, for once, she hadn't tried to murder him afterwards. "Cat got your tongue?" Liz asked sweetly.

"Shut up!"

Liz grinned and finished her tea, bad mood gone.

- o – o -

Dana Faraday prided herself on being good at hiding her emotions. Hell, she was _damn_ good at it. She'd managed to wait until she could duck into the courthouse bathroom before breaking down. After ten minutes, the public defender had managed to calm down enough to clean up and face the public. Marty had gotten through to his lawyer, finally, but it hadn't helped. If she'd known what he was going to do, she would have warned him not to say it.

She wasn't up to date on some of the more…_current_ events in the city, especially not where the local criminals were concerned, but even she knew it was stupid to try to expose a villain's identity in public. Reading all of those comics with Trip had taught her that much. It was…stupid, and kind of sad. _And now_, Dana thought as she punched the elevator call button again, _Marty was enjoying the finest psychiatric care that Owl Island Prison could provide._ Why hadn't he learned that a prison sentence was shorter than pleading insanity? What a moron.

The public defender made it to her car without being assaulted by reporters. It was a well-known fact that she was friends with Marty—the news of their falling out had never made it to the press, thank god—and that she was "Chess'" widow. What a load of croc.

"I suppose you're 'appy," a deep voice rumbled from behind her. Dana jumped in surprise, dropping her keys. Scales was standing next to her car, dressed in a dark suit and a heavy overcoat, despite the temperature. Did the man not sweat or something? Sheesh.

"Not really," Dana replied, praying he couldn't see her hands shaking as she knelt down to pick her keys up. "Why are you here?"

Scales looked at her, chewing on his lower lip. If Dana had had a camera, she would have recorded it for blackmail. Seeing the smuggler as anything less than violent or totally in control was weird. Good blackmail material though. She tapped her foot impatiently, arms crossed over her chest as she waited for a reply.

"Is…is me daughter 'appy, wherever she is?" Scales asked, wringing his hands a little. He looked uncomfortable. Dana couldn't help but feel a little sorry for him, but she squashed the feeling ruthlessly. There was a nine-year-old girl hiding in her apartment, and the man who was responsible for her injuries was standing right in front of her. No matter how worried he looked, Dana couldn't, in good conscience, say anything to him.

"I don't know," she replied frostily. "You should have thought about that before beating her," she added, unlocking her car.

"I…I didn't mean to… I would _never_…"

There was nothing more pathetic, Dana decided, than a grown man breaking down and sobbing. Seeing the smuggler kneeling on the ground, head clutched in his hands and sobbing like the world was ending…was _incredibly_ pathetic. It was beyond pathetic, actually. She sighed and got out, kneeling down next to him.

"Scales, you broke her nose, and her cheekbone was fractured. She's lucky she wasn't concussed. And all you can say is that you 'didn't mean to'?" Dana was well aware of the fact that she was playing with fire. She also knew that Liz still adored and respected her father, but the man really needed to be taken to task.

"I…" Scales looked up, face streaked with tears. His eyes were red, and it was obvious he'd been crying a lot. Dana was also pretty sure he'd been drinking. "I… T'is was th' firs' time I _ever_ raised an 'and to 'er, I swear. I…I _promised_ t'at I'd never raise an 'and against me girl, no' after…no after wot me childhood was like… _Oh god…_"

Dana patted his back awkwardly. "There, there," she said, wondering just when she'd become the go-to girl for vigilantes, smugglers, and small children. Well, the small children were excusable—they came with being a mother. Vigilantes and smugglers, on the other hand… She sighed. This was just one weird-ass day, wasn't it?

Eventually, Scales left. Dana had assured him that his daughter _probably_ wasn't holding any long-term grudges (she _was_ only nine, after all), and that—wherever she was holed up—she was probably safe and happy. Dana stared at her car keys for a few minutes.

"Screw it, I'm getting a bottle of wine for tonight," she muttered and stuck the key in the ignition.

- o – o -

Vince paced around on the apartment roof, rehearsing what he wanted to say to Dana if she came up that night. He'd thrown out at least six possibilities so far, including just kissing her senseless so she couldn't attack him when he took his mask off. She'd probably brain him with a stiletto or something. (Why the hell did she need to wear shoes with pointy heels? Those things were dangerous!)

"Hey, Dana, guess what, I'm not actually dead," Vince said with false cheerfulness. "Nah, that's stupid. And she'll hurt me. Hm… Hey, Dana, remember when Vince got blown… And _that's_ even worse…"

"What's even worse?"

Vince looked up in surprise. Dana had climbed onto the roof, carrying two wine glasses, a bottle of wine, and a thick blanket with her.

"Ah…nothing," Vince replied, dropping into his vigilante-rasp automatically. It was more habit than anything, and it was killing him. Maybe he should just take his mask off… "Can I help you with those?" he asked, pointing to the items she was carrying.

"No, I've got it," Dana assured him with a smile. "Are you allowed to teleport under the influence, or should I get you some water instead?" She held up the extra wine glass. Vince felt a cold ball of dread settle into his stomach. Something was up. Oh boy. It was big, and it was going to hurt him, wasn't it?

"I'm sure it'll be okay," the vigilante assured her. He smiled and accepted the glass of wine from her. "What's the occasion?"

Dana looked up at him, one eyebrow raised. "Does there have to be one?" she asked, taking a sip of her wine. Vince shrugged. "Thought so," Dana muttered. She sighed, staring at her glass. After a few minutes, she spoke up again.

"Today, I watched my husband's best friend willingly chuck himself into the loony bin at Owl Island because he's an idiot. Then, I had Scales—you know, the scary British smuggler that broke his kid's nose for no reason I know of—break down in my arms, sobbing like a little kid. The only thing that could make this trifecta perfect would be you telling me that my husband isn't dead and you're him."

Vince coughed uncomfortably. "About that, Dana…"

"Oh for the love of god!" Dana swore. "You know what, I am _not_ drunk enough for this conversation. Come back to this in about a bottle or so, okay? Just…_don't_. Okay?"

Vince pulled his mask off, smiling sheepishly at Dana. Well, she'd invited him to do so, hadn't she? Getting a glass of wine thrown in his face wasn't much of a surprise. Neither was the slap—or the sobbing into his chest. The kiss was, though.

Nice, though. Very nice.

- o – o -

Over the next few days, Dana began repairing her relationship with her darling blockhead of a husband. The first order of business was letting Jack know what was up. After all, she'd have felt bad just dumping him out of the blue for no reason. He didn't deserve that. Looking back on it years later, Dana would find that the memory of Jack slugging Vince and calling him a heartless jackass for abandoning his wife was one of her favorite moments.

At least Trip and Liz had been out with Gerry and his mother during that little confrontation. Trip didn't need to know that his father was actually his best friend the vigilante. Liz was also out, because she was too much like her father, minus the sobbing. Gerry would have been fine, but he was too friendly with Trip. (Although Dana did wonder how much of what Gerry said was actually believed by either Trip or Liz. That would have been a fun conversation…)

The last bombshell to top everything off with a cherry was Orwell, of course. Dana had been reading the morning paper with a cup of coffee and her husband when the hacker had somehow gotten into her apartment. Dana had only met the girl once, but something about her had stuck in the public defender's memory.

That conversation was what led Dana and Orwell to their place in a receiving room off Peter Fleming's office. Dana was doing a crossword from the _Herald_, trying not to show how much the little bombshell had affected her.

It was one thing to learn that Orwell had set her husband up, even if it had been unintentional. It was entirely _another_ to learn that the hacker was, in fact, Peter Fleming's long lost daughter. Now that she thought about it though, Dana could definitely see the family resemblance between the two of them. It was a little creepy.

She sighed and finished the crossword while Orwell went into her father's private office, alone. The billionaire's assistant, Charles, had politely brought her a cup of coffee, prepared just the way she liked it—black, two sugars. Dana had carefully ignored the coffee, more than a little disturbed at the fact that ARK somehow knew how she took her morning jolt of caffeine.

"YOU WHAT?!"

Dana winced at the bellowing from Fleming's office. It sounded like a nice, polite, father-daughter row. Maybe she'd get lucky, and they'd obliterate each other through sheer force of personality. Or something. (Knowing that her husband was innocent, and Marty wasn't a lunatic, helped with that wish. Well, mostly. Marty was still a dick.)

"I! Don't! Care!" Orwell screamed at her father, exiting his office. She stormed out of the receiving room, heading for the elevator. Dana stood up and was about to follow the irate Fleming heiress when the billionaire came out of his office.

"How did I raise such a brat?" Peter said. Dana was pretty sure it was a rhetorical question, but couldn't resist.

"Could have something to do with that giant silver spoon in her mouth," she snarked. Peter looked at her, an amused smile twitching around his lips.

"Mrs. Faraday. Come to tear my heart out with a spoon so you can eat it, I assume?" Darn it all, why did he have to be so… Well… Damn, he was good looking up close. And she was married. And supposed to hate him for being Chess. Crud.

"I forgot to bring lemon juice," Dana replied with a smile. Fleming laughed at that, an amused glint in his eyes.

"Well, she'll be back. It'll be hard for her to run away, now that she's made her intentions so clear." He sighed. "You know, the media—and Orwell—love painting me as the bad guy, from time to time." Dana gave a mental groan. _Another_ heartbroken confession from a nutjob? Did she have a sign on her forehead that said "criminals can unload on me for free" or something?

"I originally formatted ARK as a private security company. Then Jamie's mother was taken away, and I became focused on protecting my daughter, in any way I could. This was just the next step—making a city where she could walk around without bodyguards, and where other children would never have to worry about losing a parent…"

Dana sighed. She was going to have to buy a _lot_ more booze, for future emergencies like this. The public defender wondered if most of the alcoholics on the planet were that way because they managed to attract the crazies. And now she'd learned why her husband had had to take the fall for Chess' crimes: Fleming was a good, if psychotically overprotective and somewhat homicidal, father.

As she left to drive Jamie back to her temporary home, Dana had to wonder how the billionaire would react when he met the girl's boyfriend, a short man named Rollo, with an even shorter temper.

The thought made her smile all the way home.

- o – o -

So, what did you think? Good? Bad? Feeling sorry for Dana? Drop a line and let me know!


	17. Epilogue:  Falling To The Sky

Holy canoli, it's the epilogue. At this time, I would like to thank my loyal reviewers, and those who've added this story to their alert list and favorited it. Thanks go out to my reviewers Thegirlinthewindow and Orwell-Is-Watching_xoxo, with extra special thanks going to my beta, WtchCool.

This epilogue beta'ed by WtchCool.

- o – o -

Epilogue: Falling to the Sky

Eventually, Peter Fleming had to see reason and offered up another sacrificial goat to clear Vince Faraday's name. It had been one of the many parts of his attempt to reconcile with his estranged daughter, Jamie Fleming. Surprisingly, letting the court of public opinion eviscerate Marty Voyt and Mick Reese as the masterminds behind Chess (allegedly, Reese had been in charge of hiring actors to portray the psychopath if the man was needed to appear in public for any reason, while Voyt had been the actual brains of the operation) had been the opening the billionaire had needed to reconcile with his daughter. Fleming still hadn't figured out just why his daughter was so enamored with Faraday, but wasn't going to question it.

Hell, the only problem Fleming had with his daughter no longer avoiding him was her boyfriend, a dwarf named Rollo. The first meeting had not gone well, and the billionaire had walked with a limp for several months afterwards—and had steadfastly refused to talk about the meeting to anyone.

Jamie Fleming and Rollo eventually married, even with Peter Fleming's well publicized threat to the performer hanging over their heads. Fleming eventually gave up trying to separate them and continued running his company for the next fifteen years, before retiring to spoil his grandchildren rotten. Jamie didn't speak to him for six months afterwards, although that was mostly because she was busy learning how to run ARK. Despite rumors to the contrary, her father was not running the company from behind the scenes.

ARK Corporation flourished under Jamie Fleming. In a rare interview, her father admitted that he was rather proud of her accomplishments, even if she _had_ made several contracts with Raoul and Raoul Shipping, Ltd. to send shipments around the world.

The Faraday family also got over their own hurdles. Understandably, Jack Kirchner was rather upset when he learned that Vince was still alive, and had neglected to inform Dana of the fact for several months. Eventually, the conflict between Jack and Vince defused when Vince introduced the lawyer to his friends in the Carnival of Crime. (Jack did eventually marry Raia, two years later; he was the only one allowed to call her by her birth name, Ellen.)

Vince and Dana went into couples counseling to work through the hurdles in their relationship. It took six months, but they finally got through the bulk of their problems. The counselor they'd been seeing retired immediately after and refused to give any interviews.

Trip Faraday eventually became the star of the family—and Palm City's latest media darling—when he started dating Elizabeth Raoul. The press attention stopped after the heir to the Raoul family pulled a gun on one of the reporters. (She was acquitted, given that the reporter _had_ been trespassing and trying to stick a GPS beacon on her much beloved '67 Marcos.)

Thirteen years after he and Liz had been given the chance to rewrite history, Trip took up the mantle of the Cape once again. (His gymnastics skills had improved considerably, as had his driving skills. His driving tutor was one of Scales' getaway drivers, who gave him the lessons so that Liz didn't turn over her folder of blackmail to her father.) Trip couldn't help but think it was a bad idea.

The twenty-three-year-old's phone rang, making him jump. Trip put the costume back behind the secret panel in his closet, shutting it tightly and pulling the rack of clothes back into place. "Yeah?" he asked, tucking the phone between his shoulder and his ear.

-_If you're late for this wedding, Trip, I'll rip your spleen out and shove it down your throat._-

Trip smiled at the dire threat. Liz hadn't given them up, even after her therapist had suggested she and her father try to find a less violent method of bonding. (Trip knew for a fact, however, that Scales had postponed teaching his daughter how to handle a gun, after that meeting, and had instead started a garden with her. He had a _ton_ of blackmail from that—the young man knew that pictures of Scales with dirt smeared across his face were worth a fortune to the right papers.)

"I'll be on time, sweetie," he promised, hanging up on her as the smuggler began ranting. Liz was a good person, honestly. She'd even gone legitimate, after taking over the docks when her father had retired. (The elder Raoul had not done so willingly, but breaking his hip after falling out of a sixth story window hadn't given him any leeway to argue his case.)

The vigilante arrived at the chapel on time, and took his seat in the front pew. A few years ago, everyone would have expected him to be the one waiting for Liz at the altar. He didn't begrudge his best friend his happiness, though—although Trip _really_ couldn't see how Gerry and Liz would get along in married life without trying to kill or maim each other every five minutes.

Oh well. Stranger things had happened.

- o – o -

So, what did you think? Good? Bad? Enjoy the twist ending? And what was your favorite scene/chapter of this story? Drop a line and let me know!


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